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

[novelistcasanova]

The dance master’s fingers didn’t stop moving.

They traced lazy circles just beneath the curve of her breasts, sliding back down over her stomach, resting at the knot of her black petticoat. His breath was thick now, his body flush against hers.
He kissed the nape of her neck, slowly.
And then, almost casually, like he was asking her to sit down or drink water, he murmured into her ear:
“Your petticoat… your blouse… they’re restricting your movements, Sudha.”
Her breath caught.
“You’ll dance better… without them.”
His voice was calm—too calm for how her heart was racing.
Her lips parted, but no words came. Her palms brushed over her own arms, hugging herself.
“Master…” she whispered, half-shocked, half-excited.
He stepped around her, facing her now, and his eyes roamed over her body—not with greed, but reverence. As though he were standing in front of something sacred. His hand reached up and gently brushed a stray hair from her cheek.
“Don’t be scared,” he said. “Just you and me. There’s nothing wrong with dancing freely.”
my wife’s body trembled. Her blouse felt too tight suddenly, too warm.
Her fingers rose to the side hook of her blouse—hesitant, shaking. Her eyes didn’t meet his. She looked down, biting her lower lip, heart thudding in her throat.
She unhooked the first clasp.
Then the second.
Her breathing grew heavier as she slowly peeled the yellow blouse away from her shoulders, her skin breaking out in goosebumps as it slipped down her arms.
Now her soft white bra was fully visible—thin-strapped, cotton, slightly faded from many washes. Her arms instinctively moved to cross over her chest.
The dance master stopped her gently.
“No,” he said softly. “Don’t cover, you look good in it.”
His words sent a shiver through her spine.
Then he knelt slightly, hands reaching for the petticoat’s knot at her waist. She tensed.
He paused.
“May I?”
She couldn’t speak. She only nodded, once.
He undid the knot slowly. The black cotton fell around her ankles in silence, brushing over her calves like a sigh.
And then she stood there.
Barefoot. In just her white bra and white panties.





The ceiling fan ticked overhead, stirring the still air. Somewhere, a distant dog barked. The world continued, indifferent.
But inside this little room, time had slowed to her heartbeat.
my wife stood still, arms by her side, trembling and flushed.
Her eyes lowered, cheeks burning.
Her nipples pressed lightly against the fabric of her bra, tight and alive. Her white panties clung modestly to her wide hips, covering little but promising much.
She felt exposed.
She felt shy.
And yet… beneath that shyness, was a warmth that refused to hide.
A growing throb between her thighs.
A subtle dampness.
A need.
She was nervous.
But she was also… aroused.
The dance master didn’t speak.
He simply stood there, letting his eyes drink in the sight of her—Sudha, my wife, his quiet muse, now bared in a way far deeper than skin. She looked like a secret whispered between bedsheets. A prayer half-spoken.
Her white bra clung gently to the soft curve of her breasts, rising and falling with each breath. Her panties hugged her hips, cotton stretched delicately across the softness of her thighs. Every inch of her looked like a woman slowly remembering her own hunger.
And yet, she stood still.
A flush ran from her neck to her navel, her gaze flickering downward.
She bit her lower lip again—harder this time.
The dance master took a slow step forward.
She didn’t move away.
Another step.
Now, he was close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin. Close enough to catch the faint scent of her body—the heady blend of coconut oil, sandalwood, and something deeper. Something intimate. Aroused.
His fingers brushed the side of her arm. Then her waist.
She shivered.
He raised his hand and cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking just below her lower lip.
“Sudha…” he whispered, eyes searching hers, “You’re beautiful.”
Her eyes flicked up. Met his.
And then… something shifted.
A tension broke. A dam inside her cracked open, not in words—but in movement.
my wife stepped into him.
Closed the distance.
And suddenly, her arms were around his neck—eager, trembling, breathless. She pulled him down to her, her fingers knotting into his hair, her chest pressed against his bare skin. Her lips grazed his shoulder, her cheek against his neck.
She hugged him like she was falling.
And he—he wrapped her up, fully, completely.
Two bodies now wrapped in sweat and heartbeat and breath.
She wasn’t hiding anymore.
Her shyness hadn’t vanished—but it had transformed. It had melted into something more primal, more real.
Desire.
Raw. Open. Honest.
the dance master held her close, feeling every soft inch of her against him. Her thighs brushed his. Her hips tilted into his. The thin cotton between them did little to soften the heat.
And as her breath hitched into his neck, her lips parted against his skin, and her nails pressed lightly into his back—
the dance master knew.
She wanted him.
All of him.
My wife closed her eyes.
The cotton of her bra brushed his bare chest, the coolness of the room kissing her exposed skin while his body heat cocooned her. Her belly—soft and warm—pressed into his abdomen. And his breath… his breath was at her ear now. Whispering nothing, yet everything.
Her fingers, once curled shyly against her own sides, now clutched at his shoulders. Her forehead dropped to his collarbone.
The scent of him—part talcum, part salt, part something unmistakably the dance master—enveloped her.
He lowered one hand to the top of her hip, the edge of her panties. His thumb traced slow circles along the elastic. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just... lingering.
His lips didn’t kiss her. Not yet. They just hovered near her temple, breathing her in.
The silence between them thickened—not with tension, but anticipation.
the dance master’s hand moved again. This time up her back. Over the bra strap. Two fingers stopped there, kneading just slightly. Her body pressed in tighter, as though on its own.
And still, no words.
Just breath. Skin. Movement.
And a rhythm building beneath her ribs.
my wife felt it first in her thighs. That soft ache. That tingling weight pulling inward. Her breathing grew shallow, her chest brushing his with every rise and fall.
Her eyes fluttered shut. Her lips parted slightly. Her toes curled against the tiled floor.
She didn’t know when she started leaning her hips into him, but now she couldn’t stop.
She could feel her nipples begin to harden inside her bra, brushing lightly against his chest with every sway of their bodies.
A slow warmth had bloomed low in her belly, spreading downward, coiling between her legs.
It was maddening—this not-quite-touching, this teasing dance of skin and restraint.
She bit her lower lip.
A low, quiet moan slipped past her lips—almost accidental, almost a whisper.
the dance master heard it. She felt the slight shift in his breath, the way his hands pressed firmer against her lower back.
He hadn't kissed her yet. He hadn’t even undressed her further.
But still, her body burned.
She was no longer just held.
She was possessed.
Her thighs pressed together, involuntarily. That ache grew deeper, warmer. Her breath was no longer even.
She felt it.
That unmistakable heat.
That silent, pulsing want.
my wife… was feeling horny.
Her body was no longer hers. It was music in the dance master’s hands.
My wife's body was pressed against the dance master’s, wrapped in his embrace like a silken secret. Every breath she took was filtered through his chest, every heartbeat synced with his. Her white cotton panties clung to her gently curving hips, warm and damp from the heat rising within her.
And then—the dance master shifted.
Slowly, deliberately, he loosened the hug, only to slide his hands down her back, grazing the curve of her hips. With his left hand around her waist, the right hand crept forward—fingers tracing the soft hollow beneath her navel.
my wife stiffened slightly. Her breath caught.
She didn’t look up. She couldn’t.
As the Dance Master began moving his fingers lower and began grabbing my wife’s Pussy over her White Panties, “mmmmmmm,” my wife moaned.  He cupped her pussy softly over her White Panties from the front—his palm curved gently, possessively. Not pushing. Just holding.
She gasped.
Not from fear. But from that sudden, startling bloom of sensation.
Her knees almost buckled.
“mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,”
A soft sound escaped her lips.
Not quite a word. Not quite a sigh.
It was something older, deeper. A sound that came from instinct, not thought. Her head fell against his shoulder, and her hands—trembling—hovered near his arms.
the dance master’s fingers stayed still, pressed against her Pussy, separated only by the thin white cotton.
She could feel everything. The pressure. The heat of his hand. The way her own body responded like a spark catching flame.
She moaned again—longer, this time. Her thighs squeezed inward. Her lips parted.
And still, he didn’t speak.
Just watched her.
Watched her mouth tremble. Her chest rise and fall. The storm quietly blooming in her.
my wife’s hands finally rose. She pressed them to his shoulders—soft palms over muscle, fingers tightening slightly.
She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were clouded, lashes damp. Her cheeks were flushed.
And then—her voice broke the silence.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just... trembling.
“No, please…”