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

[novelistcasanova]

As the dance master slowly drew his hand away from between her thighs taking his right hand middle finger out of my wife’s pussy and his right hand out of her White Panties—his fingers glistening with the evidence of her arousal.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t rush.
Instead, he lifted his hand to his lips, eyes locked on hers.
And then—he licked his middle finger.
A slow, deliberate motion.
As if savoring something rare. Something sacred.
His eyes never left hers.
my wife’s breath caught. She stared, wide-eyed, her chest rising and falling fast beneath the white cotton of her bra. The heat in her belly turned molten.
She felt exposed—seen in a way no mirror had ever seen her.
the dance master’s expression shifted—tenderness mixing with hunger.
He stepped back just enough to hook his thumbs at his waistband. With one fluid motion, he slipped out of the last barrier between them.
His underwear slid down his hips, revealing all of him—unashamed, eager, and unmistakably ready.
He stood tall before her, bare now, fully aroused, breathing her in with every glance.
my wife didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
Her eyes dropped.
She saw him. All of him.
Bold and beautiful in his hunger.
Her mouth parted slightly.
A warmth bloomed in her throat. Her lips felt dry. Her tongue, suddenly heavy.
And then—her mouth began to water.
Not just from desire, but from something deeper.
A need to taste. To take. To be taken.




Her fingers clutched the edge of her bra, but she didn’t move. She just stood there—shivering in white cotton, caught in the spell of the man she loved... and now desperately wanted.
They stood before each other—bare skin brushing cotton, breathless and undone.
the dance master’s desire pulsed in the stillness of the room, thick with longing. my wife’s eyes stayed fixed—wide and wet with something between hunger and hesitation.
the dance master reached down.
Gently, reverently, he took her right hand in his.
And then—with exquisite slowness—he guided it forward.
She didn’t resist.
Her fingers—shy and trembling—closed around his erect cock. The weight. The firmness.
my wife’s breath hitched.
Her lips parted. Her knees weakened.
She was holding his cock now.
Alive in her palm. Warm against her skin.
Her thumb moved slightly, instinctively.
the dance master groaned softly, the sound like thunder low in his throat. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment.
Then—he leaned in.
His hand rose to her cheek, cupping her face with a tenderness that sent chills down her spine.
He looked into her eyes.
Not demanding. Not commanding.
Just… asking.
“Sudha,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but gentle, “take it off…”
His fingers brushed the strap of her bra, tracing its edge. Then he glanced downward, his eyes dipping over the white cotton still clinging to her.
“Let me see all of you…”
my wife didn’t answer with words.
Her lips trembled. Her hand still held him, barely moving now.
Her breath was shallow.
And then—her fingers lifted to her back, fumbling softly at the clasp of her white bra.
Slowly, nervously… she began to unhook it.
my wife’s fingers, delicate and unsure, worked slowly at the back clasp of her white cotton bra. Her breath faltered. Her lips stayed parted, almost in prayer.
the dance master said nothing.
He just stood there—his chest rising and falling, eyes locked on her face, not her body. It was her expression he worshipped. The vulnerability. The courage. The surrender blooming like a white lotus in dusk.
The clasp gave.
The bra loosened.
The straps slid off her shoulders with a gentle sigh, falling down her arms like soft petals.
She held the cups against her chest for a moment longer—hesitant.
But something in the dance master’s gaze softened her fear.
Slowly, she let the fabric slip from her fingers.
the dance master didn’t pounce. He didn’t rush.
He just looked.
Looked like a man who had discovered something divine.
His hands didn’t move at first. Only his eyes—drinking her in with reverence, as if memorizing the slope, the softness, the story her body told without words.
“You’re so beautiful…” he whispered.
my wife’s arms folded lightly in front of her, out of shyness, not refusal.
She looked away.
But the dance master stepped closer.
With both hands, he gently cupped her face, lifting her chin until their eyes met again.
"Just one more," he murmured, voice trembling with warmth. His thumb stroked her cheek. "Take your Panties off , Sudha... for me."
Her heart fluttered wildly now. She stood before him in nothing but her white panties, her bare breasts rising and falling with every breath.
Her fingers trembled again—now at the waistband.
She hooked her thumbs inside.
Paused.
Her eyes flicked up to him.
And her breath caught once more.
my wife stood trembling—bare above the waist, shy below, wearing only her last remaining piece of modesty. Her breasts, flushed and rising with each unsteady breath, caught the dim golden light filtering through the curtain.
the dance master stepped in closer.
His hands gently brushed her hair aside, fingers grazing her collarbone. Then, without a word, he lowered his mouth to her boobs.
His lips parted.
And then—he took one breast into his mouth.
Slowly. Tenderly. Reverently.
He suckled softly at first, as though tasting her for the first time, his tongue warm and searching. His hand cupped the other breast, thumb stroking her peak in slow circles that made her knees threaten to give way.
my wife gasped.
Then moaned.
Soft. Helpless. Her hands flew to his shoulders for balance, head tipping back as her body responded to his mouth—her back arching, thighs pressing together.
She whimpered his name. “Ravi…”
His mouth didn’t stop. He suckled deeper now—passion rising between them like a stormcloud ready to burst.
His right hand slid down from her waist, fingers tracing the line where fabric met skin.
He paused there—just at the waistband of her white panties.
my wife felt it. That hesitation. That promise.
And then—he moved.
His hand slipped lower, gliding over the front of her panties, palm resting warmly, fingers curling softly over the fabric.
She trembled.
the dance master’s mouth released her breast with a wet sigh. He looked up into her eyes.
And slowly, he knelt.
His fingers hooked the sides of her panties.
He kissed her navel once—tender and unhurried.
And then—he pulled her panties down, inch by inch, his gaze never leaving hers.
The white cotton slid over her hips, down her thighs, brushing her skin like a breath. Her hands clutched his shoulders, not to stop him—but to steady herself.
When the fabric pooled at her ankles, my wife stepped out—bare now, fully, beautifully.
Her heart pounded.
Her body was heat and softness and surrender.
my wife stood before him—bare, trembling, radiant. The last of her modesty lay in a soft white circle at her feet.
And the dance master… knelt.
Not as a man hungry for flesh.
But as one overwhelmed by the miracle of her.
His eyes swept up her body slowly—feet, thighs, hips, belly, breasts, neck—finally meeting her eyes. There was reverence there. Longing, yes—but gentled by awe.
“You’re…” he breathed, voice low and cracked, “…divine.”
He reached up and slid his palms along the outsides of her thighs. His touch was warm, steady. Calming.
my wife’s breath was shaky. Her hands were at her sides, her fingers fluttering like petals in a breeze.
Then—he leaned forward and began kissing my wife’s Pussy lips.
He kissed the inside of her thigh.
Softly.
Not hurried. Not greedy.
One kiss. Then another. A trail. Upward. Nearer. Her skin shivered under his mouth.
my wife gasped—her hand flying to his hair instinctively, fingers curling into the strands as if to pull him closer… or perhaps, to hold herself together.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered between kisses. “Every inch of you.”
His lips brushed the delicate crease of my wife’s soft Pussy. Then lower. Then back to her thigh again.
She was breathless now—eyes fluttered shut, her legs shaky, one knee gently bent as if her body was trying to open itself to him without thought.
He kissed just above her mound, not yet parting her—but close. Intimate. Deeply reverent.
my wife moaned softly, her fingers tugging his hair, her belly fluttering beneath the weight of so much attention.
“You smell like longing,” the dance master murmured against her Pussy. “And I want to lose myself here.”
He wrapped his arms around her thighs, holding her close to his mouth, anchoring her.
Her breath grew ragged. Her chest heaved. Her head dropped back, exposing her throat as her lips parted in a helpless sigh.
Each kiss felt like a prayer.
Each whisper, a worship.
As he began kissing my wife’s pussy lips passionately, “mmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmm,” my wife began to moan.
She had never felt like this before.
Not during hurried evenings when our house was quiet.
Not in stolen moments of our marriage blurred by routine.
This—this was something else.