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

[novelistcasanova]

my wife’s whispered “No, please…” still hung in the thick air like a delicate thread—shaken, but unbroken.

But the dance master... he heard something else behind it. Not rejection. Not fear. But the last flicker of restraint. A thread unraveling.
He looked into her eyes—wide, dark, stormy—and without a word, his left hand slowly rose. He buried his fingers gently into her long, soft hair. Not to pull. But to anchor. To keep her close.
And then, with a deep inhale, he leaned in.
His lips met hers.
Not soft this time.
Passionate. Full. Hungry.
As the dance master began kissing my wife’s lips passionately, my wife gasped into his mouth—but he swallowed the sound, capturing it in a kiss that said all the words neither of them could speak. His lips moved over hers with purpose, opening her slowly, rhythmically, with each pass.
His right hand—already resting low on her belly—slipped downward, past the waistband of her white panties.
my wife tensed.
But her arms didn’t stop him.
Instead, they clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging in, breath caught in her throat. Her thighs shifted involuntarily.
And then—he inserted his right hand inside my wife’s White Panties and touched her.
Skin to skin.
His middle finger traced the softest line through the center of her, and my wife shuddered.
She tried to control herself.
She tried. She really did. Her lips stayed still beneath his for a moment longer, her body shaking from the inside.
But the kiss...
The kiss was too much.  And the way his middle finger was fingering her Pussy.  The rhythm too slow, too deliberate, too knowing, enjoying the feel of my wife’s Pussy.
A low moan rose from her throat. Her hips shifted toward his palm.
The moment he inserted his middle finger deep inside her Pussy, like a wave finally giving in to the pull of the shore—she kissed him back.
Deeply.
Desperately.
Her lips parted for him, matching his passion with her own, her breath trembling against his cheek as her arms wrapped fully around his neck.
She kissed him like a woman who’d forgotten where she ended and he began.
They broke apart only for a moment—foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, hearts racing.
And then, the dance master spoke.
Voice thick. Low.
“Take it off, Sudha...”
His eyes glanced down—at the white cotton bra clinging to her heaving chest. Then lower. The panties he had just touched beneath.
“All of it,” he whispered.
A pause.
A heartbeat.
my wife’s hands slowly fell from his shoulders. Her breath hitched. Her chest rose... then stilled.
She looked up at him—eyes hazy, lips kiss-swollen—and shook her head.
Softly. Once.
“No,” she said, her voice quiet. “Not yet…”
my wife’s whisper—“Not yet…”—hung in the air between them, trembling and honest.
The dance master didn’t answer with words.
Instead, his hands reached for the drawstring of his pyjamas.
His eyes stayed locked with hers. Watching her. Studying every twitch of her lips, every flicker of her lashes.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he began to undress.
The soft cotton pyjama loosened and slid down his hips, baring the lean lines of his thighs, the trail of hair across his lower abdomen. His chest was already bare, the dusky tone of his skin catching the warm afternoon light.
Now, he stood before her in nothing but his black underwear—form-fitting, stretched taut over the unmistakable shape of his arousal.
It pushed forward, bold and unhidden, straining against the fabric with undeniable want.
The dance master didn’t hide it. He let her see.
Let her feel the weight of it in the air between them.
He took a slow step toward her, barefoot on the cool floor.
my wife stood frozen.
Her arms folded lightly over her chest—not in shame, but to ground herself. To hold back the storm stirring inside her.
Her legs felt weak, yet her body remained rooted.
But her eyes…
They dropped.
First to his chest. The soft curve of muscle. The breath rising and falling steadily.
Then lower.
And there it was.
The outline of him—bold, pulsing, barely contained beneath that last strip of cloth.
Her breath caught.
Her thighs shifted slightly.
She swallowed. Once. Hard.
And then—her mouth began to water.
It shocked her.
How primal it felt. How sudden. How real.
Desire wasn’t just blooming anymore. It was dripping into her throat, pooling deep in her belly. Her lips parted just slightly, not in speech… but hunger.
the dance master stood before her now—bare-chested, wearing only his snug black underwear, his desire visible and unapologetic.
My wife stood in front of him in her white cotton bra and matching panties, her arms loosely crossed over her belly, her breathing shallow, heart thudding loud enough to hear in her ears.
The sight of him like this—so open, so raw—did something to her.
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
And then, he stepped forward.
No words. Just warmth.
His arms found her again. He pulled her into him, their half-naked bodies finally meeting in full. Skin to skin. Heat to heat.
Her breasts pressed against his chest, barely contained by her bra. Her belly brushed the rigid outline of him, and her knees went weak.
She let herself melt into his embrace, letting him hold her again.
the dance master lowered his head, brushing his lips against her hairline, then down along her temple. He placed a soft kiss at the curve of her cheek, just near her ear.
His arms wrapped tighter, more possessive now, less patient.
And then… his hands began to drift.
Down her back. Over the strap of her bra. Down the curve of her waist. Past her hips. Until both hands rested lightly on her Ass Cheeks over her White Panties.
He didn’t grope at first. He just held.
Palms curved to her curves. Thumbs grazing the edge of her White panties. His breath deepened.
And then—he began inserting his hands inside her White Panties and began grabbing her naked Ass Cheeks.
The moment his hands slipped beneath the waistband of her White panties and cupped her bare cheeks, my wife gasped.
It was electric—raw and tender at once.
She pressed her hands to his chest, unsure whether to push or hold on.
But the dance master didn’t rush. He just stood there with her. Holding her. Loving the feel of my wife’s Ass Cheeks—of her shape, her softness, her surrender slowly blooming.
And then his mouth found hers again.
Squeezing my wife’s naked Ass Cheeks inside her White Panties as he began kissing my wife’s lips, slowly at first— then firmer. Then deeper.
my wife turned her head away at first, breathless. Her hands trembled against his chest. Her body tense, caught between instinct and restraint.
But the dance master didn’t stop. He kissed the edge of her jaw. Her cheek again. Her lips once more, softly coaxing.
And then—
She kissed him back.
It wasn’t gentle anymore.
Her mouth parted for his, desperate and hungry, lips meeting his with a fire she could no longer tame.
Her fingers gripped his shoulders. Her hips moved forward. The tension broke.
And my wife let herself go—into the kiss, into him.
As my wife began kissing his lips back passionately, I could not help myself but to pull my cock out and start stroking my cock, as I was shamelessly enjoying. 
Their lips moved in rhythm now—fierce, needy, tasting each other like they were starved. The dance master’s hands roamed her body like he knew every curve by memory but wanted to relearn it all through touch.
my wife’s breath trembled as his left hand squeezed her firmly from behind, possessively, reverently. Her hips arched toward him as his fingers explored her softness, her warmth.
And then—with practiced ease—his right hand trailed lower, between the press of her thighs, seeking, slipping, parting.
my wife gasped against his lips.
Her whole body quivered, her knees unsteady as her hands flew to his shoulders, clinging. Her spine arched, her head falling slightly back as her lips parted in a moan she couldn’t hide.
She held onto him tighter—her arms wrapped fully around his neck now, her chest pressed into him, breath coming fast and hot.
She could barely stand. His hands—so sure, so slow—playing with my wife’s pussy from the inside out. The world around her blurred into heat and heartbeat. Her thighs trembled. Her toes curled on the cold floor.
He kissed her neck now, slow and open-mouthed, whispering nothing but breath and want into her skin.
And inside her, something opened.
A need. A cry her lips couldn’t form, but her body screamed.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She felt weak. Shaky. Unmoored.
She pressed herself into him, as close as she could, as if proximity might relieve the ache building in the deepest part of her.
She wanted to speak. To say something. To stop this or to beg for it—she didn’t know.
But all that came was a trembling whimper against his collarbone.
Her body was fire and her voice was ash.
And in the thick heat of his arms, my wife wanted one thing—desperately.
To feel him inside her.