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

[novelistcasanova]

She hadn’t looked up since letting the saree fall.

Her yellow blouse clung to her like a second skin—cut low at the back, the damp cotton outlining her bra straps beneath. The black petticoat hugged her hips firmly, and with the saree gone, her body felt startlingly bare—open in a way I had never seen her be with anyone else.
Ravi stepped forward.
No music now.
Just breath.
And silence.
And the thrum of something far too intimate pulsing in the air.
He raised his hands and touched her waist.
She didn’t flinch.
Slowly, he pulled her closer—again.
Like before.
Only this time, skin touched skin.
His arm slid around her back. His other hand rested flat against her petticoat’s curve. And just like that, he began to move with her—dancing.
It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t loud.
It was slow.
Deliberate.
A sway.
A press.
A pause.
Their hips brushed as he turned her. Her hands found his shoulders. Her fingers gripped lightly.
Her chest pressed against him with every sway.
Her blouse—thin, breath-warm, damp—revealed too much.
And then…
She let out a soft exhale.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
Her breath caught at the top of her throat.
Her thighs pressed together slightly, instinctively.
Her hips faltered, then pushed back against his lead.
Her body betrayed her restraint.
Sudha was getting aroused.
And I knew that breath.
I knew that tremble.
It was the same one she gave me, years ago, on the nights she didn’t speak but only pulled me to her slowly, shyly, silently begging to be undone.
But this wasn’t our bed.
And those weren’t my arms.
She was trying to fight it—I could see it in the way her fingers clutched too tightly, her jaw tensed, her eyes stayed closed too long.
But her body…
Her body had slipped beyond obedience.
And Ravi…
Ravi just kept dancing.
Leading.
Guiding.
Owning the rhythm.
The Dance Floor had grown quieter now.
The Music had long faded into silence. Only the ceiling fan hummed above, and the whisper of breath between two bodies filled the space where music once lived.
The dance master stood close behind her, his chest bare, his arms wrapping around my wife’s waist like vines curling around a beloved tree. She was warm, soft in his hold, her skin flush from the dancing, the teasing, the unfamiliar sensation of being undressed so slowly.
She wore only her yellow blouse now—its short sleeves wrinkled slightly from his fingers—and her black petticoat, knotted tightly at her hip. The absence of the saree made her feel exposed in a way she hadn’t in years. But in the dance master’s embrace, she didn’t feel shame.
Only heat.
He pulled her tighter, pressing his chest against her back, his chin grazing her shoulder.
“Beautiful Sudha,” he murmured, voice deep, lips brushing her skin.
my wife swallowed.
Her hands fidgeted at her stomach, unsure whether to cover herself or pull him closer. She did neither.
The dance master’s palms slowly found her hands and slid upward, over her blouse, until they cupped the weight of her breasts, through the thin, worn cotton. His touch wasn’t rushed—it was reverent, almost like prayer.
She exhaled shakily.
“the dance master…”
“Hmm?” he whispered, lips grazing her earlobe.
Her thighs pressed together instinctively.
There was something in the way his fingers kneaded her gently, in the way his body warmed her back like the midday sun through the window. Her breath began to catch on its way out, chest rising in slow, shallow waves.
He rocked her gently, his hips moving with hers in a quiet rhythm.
“You’re dancing beautifully,” he said.
She nodded faintly.
But this wasn’t like before.
This wasn’t for the sake of music.
This was her body responding on its own—flesh stirring, a slow ache building low in her stomach, her thoughts beginning to blur like paint bleeding into water.
The world narrowed to the points where his skin touched hers.
The room no longer existed. Only his arms. Only her breath.
And something else.
A soft throb.
A heat blooming, deeper than her skin.
Her head tilted back onto his shoulder as her body betrayed her—a sigh escaping her lips, not from exertion, but need.
my wife’s knees trembled slightly. Her lips parted.
She was… feeling something.
Not just held.
Not just touched.
Something deeper, heavier, warmer between her legs—like a pulse, like hunger.
Something long-forgotten was waking up inside her.
And she didn’t want to stop it.
Not yet.