Misc. Erotica The Dance Master Enjoyed My Innocent Wife - by Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

"The Dance Master Enjoyed My Innocent Wife"

By Novelist Casanova

The ceiling fan whirred lazily above, slicing through the thick, golden light of the Chennai morning. I stood at the archway, waiting for a mug of filter coffee, but my eyes had long left the cup.
Sudha was at the sink, her back turned to me—barefoot, unhurried, and utterly unaware of how divine she looked in that yellow chiffon saree. That saree… it clung to her like a lover’s second skin, almost transparent where the sun fell through the kitchen window, playing across her hips, dipping under the swell of her curves, whispering secrets with every movement.
She hadn’t pinned the saree properly today. It was carelessly pleated, hanging just below her navel, the golden border brushing that soft, dusky skin I’d kissed too few times in recent weeks. Her sleeveless blouse was a matching lemon-yellow—a deep-cut design I’d never seen before—with a bow-tied back that exposed the slope of her spine all the way down to the dip above her waist. I could just barely see the thin, white strap of her bra cutting across that tender line of her shoulder blades.
The blouse hugged her like sin. Her breasts were full—rounded, alive beneath the thin fabric. I could see their soft rise and fall with each breath, and I knew what cradled them underneath—her white cotton bra, old yet impossibly elegant against the rich honey of her skin.
As she bent slightly to reach for the vessel, the saree shifted. My breath caught.
Her black petticoat peeked out—drawstring knotted loosely, dipping dangerously low at the back, swaying as she moved. There was a raw softness to her body now—after three children and a decade of marriage—but to me, it was perfection. Her hips were wider now, her belly more tender, her thighs thick and womanly, and I had fallen for every new inch of her.
And then, as she reached up to place a plate on the rack—her nightie had dried on the balcony—I saw the unmistakable outline beneath her saree: the white panties she always wore under her petticoat. Modest. Cotton. But the way they cupped her… the way that saree outlined every curve of them in the morning light—it didn’t matter how simple they were. To me, they were worship.
She turned slightly, adjusting the blouse strap at her shoulder, and for a fleeting second, our eyes met.
I smiled.
But she didn’t notice.
She went back to humming that old Ilaiyaraaja tune, tapping her bangled fingers against the rim of the sink. Oblivious. Unbothered. A goddess dbangd in sunlight and steam.
And I stood there, forgotten for the moment—watching the woman I married, fall in love with her all over again.
As Sudha rinsed the last plate, her bangles tinkled softly—a melody that unlocked a door in my memory. A night years ago, when there were no dishes, no sons shouting about missing lunchboxes. Just her. Wrapped in bridal red, nervous fingers fumbling with her blouse hook, eyes lowered.
I remember the slow gasp that left her when I first slipped the saree off her shoulder. How her blouse opened like a secret. How the white of her bra then—simple, cotton, trembling with her breath—felt more erotic than anything lace could offer.
She had looked at me that night with fear, reverence, and something else—trust. The first time my fingers brushed the bare skin under her breast, she flinched. But she didn’t stop me.
“Ram…” she had whispered. “Be gentle…”
And I had. Every inch of her was explored with devotion, not haste. Her body was still learning to be touched, and I wanted to be her teacher.
Now, as she turned from the sink, towel in hand, her eyes met mine again—but this time, she smiled.
“Coffee” she asked, wiping her damp hands on the edge of her petticoat.
“Only if you sit with me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Her scent—jasmine shampoo and fresh detergent—was undoing me.
She sat at the table, one leg tucked under the other. The saree slid slightly, revealing her ankle, a glimpse of that black petticoat’s hem, and a flash of white beneath it.
I reached for the sugar bowl, but my hand brushed hers.
She didn’t pull away.
Instead, her fingers lingered—light, curious.
“You’re staring again,” she said softly, teasing.
“I always do when you look like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like the reason I breathe.”
She blushed, biting her lower lip. The same lip I had kissed countless times. The same one she bit on our wedding night when my hand slid between her thighs for the first time.
She picked up her coffee, sipped slowly, and looked out the window.
“I’m late,” she murmured, brushing her pallu across her chest, hiding her blouse’s bold cut again. “Ravi sir won’t like it.”
I almost said I don’t like it either.
But I stayed silent, and went to the Balcony to finish my coffee.
She rushed to the Bathroom to get ready.
As she came out of the Bathroom, she thought I had gone to take a call.
But I lingered, half-hidden in the hallway, coffee forgotten in my hand, as she walked softly into the bedroom. The door remained half-open—like her, never fully guarded, never fully closed.
The yellow chiffon saree lay dbangd across the bed, waiting like a promise. The black petticoat was already tied low around her hips, the drawstring dangling loose, swinging against her navel with each quiet step.
She moved with a rhythm only I knew—a grace made of habit and heat.
And then she reached for the drawer.
From it, she took her white cotton panties—simple, folded, still warm from the morning sun—and stepped into them. Her hands held the waistband delicately, guiding the soft fabric up her thighs, over the gentle swell of her hips. She adjusted them at the sides, tugged slightly, letting them settle in the way she liked. Not too high. Not too tight. The elastic nestled into her curves like memory.
Next, the bra.
She slipped the white cups over her arms, lifted her breasts gently into them—like a woman who has learned to care for herself in silence. The cotton stretched over her softness, lifting and shaping, encasing what I’d kissed so reverently on our first night. She turned slightly, reached behind, fingers fumbling for the hooks, and caught her reflection in the mirror.
That moment stilled me.
Her body, half-dressed, half-revealed—was a temple caught between devotion and temptation.
She adjusted the straps, ran her fingers along the line where skin met fabric. A small crease formed between her brows—she was checking the fit, always slightly annoyed with this old, faithful bra that clung to her like memory.
And then—she smiled to herself.
It wasn’t a vain smile.
It was the smile of a woman remembering she was still beautiful.
She pulled the black petticoat over the waistband of her panties, letting the soft cotton hug her from hip to ankle. Her blouse came next—a sleeveless, lemon-yellow one I hadn’t seen in months. She slipped it over her head, the loose armholes revealing the white straps beneath.
She struggled with the hooks at the back, her arms bent awkwardly, breasts shifting gently within the cotton cups. I could see the slight jiggle, the tender resistance of flesh within fabric. The blouse, once fastened, hugged her tight—too tight, almost. She smoothed it down, frowning at a little puff of softness near her side.
She didn’t know I was watching.
But I was.
God, I was.
Then came the saree.
She lifted it like silk water, pleated it with long, practiced fingers, and tucked it into her petticoat—deep, firm, slightly to the left. The movement made her blouse shift again, revealing the side slope of her bra. She didn’t notice.
Or perhaps… some part of her wanted to be seen.
The final touch—the pallu over her shoulder. It slid into place, then slipped slightly, as if it too refused to hide her fully.
She turned, checking herself in the mirror, hands on her waist, tilting side to side. Her hips moved with such ease—fluid, ripe with an unconscious sensuality that could bring a man to his knees.
And I, standing in the hallway, nearly was.
She looked at herself one last time, adjusted her bindi, and left the room—light on her feet, heavy on my heart.




The sound of her anklets trailed behind her as she stepped out onto the sun-warmed veranda. I stood by the curtains, barely breathing, watching her cross the gate with that careful grace—modest, composed, and yet so vividly sensual that it felt obscene to the air around her.
She adjusted her pallu as the auto-rickshaw approached. The yellow chiffon slipped from her shoulder, briefly baring the deep curve of her blouse back—the bow-tied string dancing just above the black petticoat’s waistband. The auto came to a gentle halt, coughing dust into the sunlight. She ducked slightly and stepped in.
As she sat, the saree lifted just an inch above her ankles. The breeze rushed in. Her pallu fluttered like a breath against her cheek, and I caught a glimpse of the fabric clinging to the inner curve of her thigh. She tugged at it instinctively, not knowing she was performing a ritual of seduction I’d never tire of watching.
Her bangles clicked together as she held onto the metal bar of the auto’s roof. The driver turned his head to speak to her, then paused—eyes lingering. I knew that look. Every man in this city had turned into a worshipper in Sudha’s accidental temple.
As the auto pulled away, I noticed her adjusting her blouse strap again, pulling it slightly inward to cover the edge of her bra. Her fingers moved with the ease of habit, of a woman used to managing heat, fabric, and modesty in public. And yet… the very act made my mouth dry.
She leaned slightly to one side to check her bag—her waist arching subtly, the outline of her white panties barely visible through the thin cotton of her petticoat. She sat unaware that I watched her like a man watches a moment he knows will soon break.
And it did.
Because I followed.
Not in another auto.
In my own car, slowly, discreetly, with every turn of the road winding deeper into something I wasn’t ready to admit:
Jealousy.
Or was it fear?
The house was unusually quiet.
Our sons had left for college, their voices and tumbling footsteps long faded into the morning. I had slipped into a soft nap on the diwan near the bay window—half-dbangd in sunlight, half-dbangd in the scent of Sudha that still lingered in the air like jasmine after rain.
When I woke, there was a silence that felt… incomplete. A presence missing.
I stood, stretched, and reached for my coat. My court hours would begin soon. I was about to leave when I noticed it—her phone, still on the charger by the bedside table, the screen glowing gently with a missed call from Ravi Sir.
I picked it up slowly.
Not out of suspicion.
But out of instinct.
Her name flashed on the lock screen: “Sudha Devi ?” — a name I had saved long ago, in our early days, when every message from her thrilled me like a secret.
She hadn’t even realized she’d left it behind.
I ran my fingers along the phone’s edge. It was warm from charging, and something about it—this little piece of her, buzzing quietly in my palm—moved me.
Let me give it to her on the way.
Just a gesture. A thoughtful husband. Perhaps she'd smile when I surprised her. Perhaps I’d even see her dance, maybe for the first time.
I slipped the phone into my pocket, grabbed my briefcase, and left.
Chennai’s midday sun hit different—it was blinding, golden, thick with the scent of road dust, fried vadas, and hibiscus blooms straining on their branches. The traffic whined and coughed, but my mind was calm.
Until I reached the studio.
It stood behind a high gate, an old bungalow-turned-art-space, with bougainvillea climbing the outer walls like red lace. The wooden nameplate read “Natana Sudha – college of Classical Dance.”
Her name. Sudha. Coincidence?
No.
The air was cooler inside the gate. Still. Quiet, except for the faint hum of a tanpura recording echoing from within. I climbed the steps slowly. Her phone in one hand, the other brushing lightly against my chest pocket, where her old love letters still sometimes hid.
I stood outside the half-closed studio door.
And that’s when I heard it.
Her laughter.
Low. Breathless. Giddy.
And then—his voice. Calm. Commanding.
“Loosen your hip. Like this… yes, Sudha… trust your body.”
I froze.
My fingers clutched the phone tighter.
Not yet suspicion.
Just a pulse that had quickened without permission.
I didn’t knock.
I didn’t call out.
I just… looked.



The door creaked faintly as I nudged it open.
And what I saw first was yellow.
Her saree—our saree, the one I’d chosen for her last Deepavali—now drenched in sweat and motion, clinging to her like desire made fabric.
Sudha was at the center of the mirrored studio, alone except for him. Her back was to me, the arch of her spine clear where her pallu had slipped. The bow of her blouse had come undone—hanging like a lazy sigh at the base of her back. Her black petticoat was riding low, the white edge of her panties peeking out as she turned, unaware.
My breath caught.
But it wasn’t lust.
It was… something else.
The dance master, Ravi, stood close—too close. One hand gently guided her hip, the other lifted her elbow like he was sculpting her out of air. His voice was soft, coaxing. Her eyes were closed. Her lips, parted slightly.
Her movements—once hesitant—were fluid now. Liquid. The kind of grace you only offer when the mind has let go of shame. Her hips rolled, her chest lifted, and the blouse pulled tight against her breasts with each breath. The soft cotton of her bra was visible, damp, outlined beneath the fabric.
She twirled once.
And in that moment—her saree came loose from her shoulder.
It slid.
And I saw it all.
The blouse barely clinging. Her stomach glistening. The deep line of her waist, the navel I had once kissed with trembling reverence. She didn’t reach for the pallu. She let it fall.
And he didn’t stop her.
He moved in. Slowly. A practiced touch to her waist.
Then his hands grazed her arms.
Then—he hugged her.
Strangely I start feeling horny watching my wife getting hugging by the Dance Master.
Their bodies met in a way that wasn’t choreography.
Sudha didn’t pull away.
She breathed in. Her head tilted to the side, lips trembling.
My hands tightened around the phone I came to return.
I wasn’t angry.
I was… outside my own skin. Like I’d left my body and stood next to myself, watching the moment unravel with unbearable softness.
Then—
Then, Ravi’s hands began to slide down her back.
Fingers moved toward the base of her blouse.

Sudha stood still in the center of the room, her yellow pallu now barely hanging off one shoulder, her blouse clinging, damp and translucent in the places where sweat kissed her skin. The low knot of her petticoat was dangerously slack, and when she turned slightly, I saw the soft line of her white panties outlined through the fabric.
Then I heard it.
His voice—quiet, coaxing, firm.
“Don’t hold back. Embrace me properly, Sudha. Like a real partner. Arms around my neck… like this.”
She blinked, unsure.
Her hands lifted slowly, trembling slightly at first. Then, one by one, her arms encircled him. Around his neck. Her breasts pressing lightly against his chest. Her face close enough to his cheek to feel his breath.
And still, she didn’t open her eyes.
But I could see her.
The way her chest rose.
The way her thighs shifted under the soft tug of the petticoat.
The way her fingers… lingered around the back of his neck.
Ravi’s hands slid to her lower back. He held her firmly, almost possessively, guiding her body closer to his. Their hips aligned now. Her head rested near his shoulder, her ear against the base of his throat.
And she—
She breathed in deeply.
Her lashes fluttered.
Her lips parted.
And then it happened.
A slow, unmistakable tilt of her hips forward—a shift that wasn’t part of the dance.
Sudha’s breath turned shallow. Her chest rose sharply. She pressed her thighs together, almost involuntarily. Her back arched ever so slightly into his body.
She was feeling something. Something deep. Raw. Dangerous.
She was getting aroused.
I could see it not in her movements, but in the stillness that followed.
A stillness charged with the thrum of a woman awakening—not just to touch, but to herself.
That was the moment I forgot to breathe.
My wife.
In another man’s arms.
And her body… betraying her.
Ravi didn’t let her go.
Their embrace shifted. Slowly. Intimately.
He held her close, his hands guiding her hips in a circular rhythm, murmuring something low into her ear that made her nod, eyes still closed.
Then—he lowered his stance, and with a graceful pull, he drew her down with him to the wooden floor. First her knees touched. Then his.
Sudha followed without question.
It looked like dance—but it wasn’t.
It was choreography disguised as closeness.
Art, masking desire.
He moved with her—arching, turning, rolling across the polished wood in a flow of limbs and breath. Their bodies locked at the hip, her blouse rising slightly with every movement, revealing the slope of her waist, the dip of her spine, and the shadow between her breasts where her pallu had long abandoned her.
Their breathing quickened—not from exertion, but something else.
Ravi’s hand slid under the arch of her back, lifting her slightly. She fell forward onto him, her thighs straddling his hips, the petticoat bunching higher than modesty allowed.
And then—he paused the dance.
His fingers brushed her hair from her shoulder. Gently.
She didn’t stop him.
He leaned in. His lips, slow and deliberate, lowered to her neck.
And kissed her.




Just once.

Not harsh.
Not hurried.
A soft press of lips—just below her ear.
And Sudha…
She shuddered.
Her mouth parted.
Her head tilted to give him more skin.
Her thighs pressed firmer around his hips.
Her fingers curled against his chest.
And her breathing…
Her breathing changed.
It became shallow. Trembling. Heavy with something unspeakable.
My wife was losing herself.
Right there.
On the studio floor.
In another man’s arms.
Their bodies moved slower now—closer, too close to still be called dancing.
Sudha sat on her knees in front of him, cheeks flushed, strands of hair sticking to her temple. The blouse clung to her chest, slightly damp and glowing golden in the slant of late-morning light.
Ravi rose first. Calm. Composed.
And then he said it—his voice low but firm.
“Remove your saree, Sudha. It’s restricting your movement. You’re holding back.”
Her eyes widened. She looked down at herself. The chiffon clung to her, its pleats pulled loose and disobedient, the pallu almost falling away.
“I—I can dance with it,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
He stepped closer. “Not like this. You’re ready to feel your body fully. Let go. Trust yourself. Trust me.”
She hesitated.
And in that hesitation, I saw it.
Shame.
Curiosity.
Longing.
She stood up.
Her hands rose slowly to her waist.
Her fingers found the pleats and began to loosen them. One by one, they fell from her grip, the folds unraveling like a secret being untied. The yellow chiffon whispered down her hips, slid past the knot of her petticoat, and puddled silently at her feet.
She didn’t look at him.
She didn’t look at herself.
She stood—still, vulnerable, alive—in just her sleeveless yellow blouse and black cotton petticoat, which hugged her curves closely and dipped just low enough to reveal the soft, tender curve above her hips.
Her arms wrapped around herself lightly, instinctively.
But she didn’t stop.
She stood there, half-exposed, half-lost, breathing hard—not from movement, but from the pounding inside her.
I wanted to scream her name.
But I couldn’t even breathe.  I was feeling horny.  SHAMELESSLY


To Be Continued...!!