22-06-2025, 08:08 AM
(This post was last modified: 22-06-2025, 08:09 AM by novelistcasanova. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
My wife stood trembling, her pussy kissed by the breath of the ceiling fan, her thighs gently parted by the dance master’s arms still wrapped around her.
His lips—hot, slow, unhurried—moved over her skin like silk poured from a sacred bowl.
And she… was unraveling.
From the inside out.
Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, but they were no longer gripping. Just resting there. Floating. As if she didn’t know what to do with her hands anymore.
Her belly fluttered—waves of sensation cresting and falling inside her. Her legs trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of being fully, wholly wanted.
Every place he kissed ignited a trail beneath her skin.
Her inner thighs throbbed with heat.
Her core pulsed with need.
Her chest felt hollow and full all at once.
She let out a breath—shaky, uneven—as if the air in her lungs had been borrowed and was now being returned to the gods.
He nuzzled the crease of her thigh again, exhaling warm breath over the most tender part of her.
She whimpered. Her knees buckled slightly.
Her free hand reached for his shoulder now, needing something to ground her.
Her skin, dewed with a faint sheen of sweat, shimmered in the golden afternoon light—like a woman reborn.
Time faded.
Thought faded.
There was no house. No Husband. No duties. No children. No shame. No memory of laundry or kitchen or neighbors.
There was only her body, and the man worshipping it. Slowly. Hungrily. Devotedly.
She could feel her breath pressing against the back of her throat—sharp, shallow. She was on the edge of something—something not quite climax, but close to it. A surrender of a different kind.
the dance master kissed her again, just below her navel. A soft, open-mouthed kiss that lingered.
Then his cheek brushed her mound. Not touching yet. Just resting.
And my wife felt herself give.
Her hips tilted forward.
A soft gasp escaped her lips.
She was ready to be taken, in every way a woman could be.
the dance master’s breath lingered against her most sensitive Pussy.
my wife stood trembling, thighs parted only slightly, her body humming, her soul somewhere between fear and fire.
He pressed one last kiss to the soft skin beside her center.
And then—he tasted her.
His lips met the very heart of Pussy, warm and slow, brushing her folds with exquisite care.
my wife’s entire body jolted.
Her fingers, tangled in his hair, gripped tighter. Her knees buckled, but his arms held her steady, anchoring her against the tide that surged through her from the inside out.
Her breath caught—then released in a gasp that sounded like surrender.
The dance master was patient. His mouth moved over her like poetry written in breath.
Each stroke of his tongue was deliberate, slow, and tender—like a man memorizing scripture with his mouth.
He didn't rush to devour.
He lingered.
He listened—to her breath, her twitching thighs, her fingers pulling his hair, the soft, helpless moans that fell from her lips like rain from a heavy sky.
My wife’s body began to lose form—no longer a shape, but sensation. Her head fell back, her lips parting wider, her moans growing deeper with each slow flick of his tongue.
the dance master pressed his tongue deeper now, firmer. His hands gripped the back of her thighs, spreading her just a little wider, holding her open to his mouth as if in silent prayer.
my wife gasped—sharp and high.
Her hips moved of their own accord now, rolling softly toward him, inviting more.
She was drenched. Needy. Unraveled.
Every flick, every kiss, every deep suckle pulled her closer to that brink—that sweet, unbearable cliff of pleasure where thought disappeared and only sensation remained.
Her legs trembled violently.
Her moans came faster, louder, almost desperate.
Her body screamed for release.
And the dance master, ever devoted, never wavered.
Her breath hitched.
Her thighs clamped briefly around his face, her hips rising up into his mouth.
And then—she froze.
Teetering on that exquisite edge.
Mouth open. Eyes fluttering. Fingernails buried in his shoulders.
She was there.
That moment of aching stillness before the wave crashes.
Her body had stopped moving—but only on the outside.
Inside, my wife was wildfire.
She stood at the brink, her thighs trembling, her belly fluttering, her breath stalled mid-moan like a choked prayer.
The dance master was still there.
Still kneeling.
Still kissing.
His mouth pressed softly, not demanding—just present. Just waiting for her to allow it. To fall.
But my wife didn’t fall yet.
She hovered.
Held in the arms of sensation so vast it made her afraid to move. To blink. To breathe.
Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, her throat tight with unshed sound.
The world around her was gone.
No floor. No fan. No walls.
Just the trembling in her thighs. The warmth of his breath. The wet pressure of his mouth. And the unbearable pleasure that clung to her like mist.
She could feel her body trying to let go.
Her muscles twitched. Her back arched slightly. Her toes curled.
But still—she resisted. Not from fear.
But from awe.
From wanting to remember this moment before it passed.
That aching, stretched-out second when she felt everything.
The worship. The want. The woman she had become in his hands.
the dance master didn’t move.
He felt her stillness.
He honored it.
His hands gently stroked her thighs. His mouth softened, only pressing his lips to her most tender place, holding her, kissing her like a secret he would never speak aloud.
He knew she was there—right at the edge.
And he waited.
For her.
For the moment she chose to fall, to trust, to dissolve.
my wife stood—bare, aroused, overwhelmed.
Her thighs quivered. Her heart thundered.
the dance master’s mouth had left her slick and pulsing, trembling on that breathless edge—but he hadn’t pushed her over it. Not yet.
And that not yet was excruciating.
It burned inside her like withheld lightning.
Her whole body was still humming. Her breath came in soft pants. Her toes curled on the floor.
Her hands trembled, reaching down for something—someone—to hold her through the storm.
the dance master lifted his face from between her thighs. His lips were damp with her essence. His eyes—dark, full, loving—looked up at her with a patience she didn’t deserve.
But she didn’t want patience now.
She wanted him.
The full weight of him. The warmth of his chest. The steadiness of his arms around her while her world melted.
Her legs moved before her mind caught up.
And then—she knelt.
my wife slowly dropped to the floor in front of him—graceful in her vulnerability. Her bare knees met the cool tiles beside his.
For a breath, they just looked at each other.
Like Two lovers. Two souls.
Both kneeling.
Both stripped.
Not just of clothes, but of hesitation, fear, and time.
And then—she wrapped her arms around him.
Not in seduction.
But in surrender.
She pressed her chest into his. Her face into his neck. Her arms clung to his back with a desperation that wasn’t about climax, but closeness.
“I need you,” she whispered—not aloud, but through the quiver of her fingers, the rhythm of her breath.
my wife pressed into him, her arms wrapped tight, her bare skin warm against his. Knees on the floor. Breasts against his chest. Her cheek nestled into the crook of his neck where his heartbeat drummed steady and low.
She wasn’t rushing toward release now.
She was simply... holding him. And being held.
And the dance master—his arms slid around her waist, pulling her in until there was no space left between their skin, between their breath, between their souls.
the dance master lifted his hand, gently stroking her hair back from her face.
He tilted his head.
Their eyes met—wet, wide, searching.
And then… he brought his forehead to hers.
No words passed between them.
But the silence was rich.
They breathed each other in, their mouths just inches apart. Warm air mingling. Sweat and love mingling.
He whispered nothing. And still, she heard everything.
Their lips met slowly—like a tide reaching the shore.
No hunger, no rush. Just... arrival.
His mouth moved against hers in slow rhythm, tender and full.
Her lips opened for him not with lust, but with need.
To be known.
To be kissed like she mattered.
As the dance master began inserting his cock inside my wife’s pussy and began enjoying himself making love to my wife on the floor, “mmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmm,” my wife to moan, and I began stroking my cock. “Mmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmm my God… What a Pussy you have, Sudha, mmmmmmmm….. I am gonna cum… I am gonna cum….,” as the dance master moaned, and began digging his cock deeper and deeper inside my wife’s pussy, “mmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” my wife began to moan, and the moment Rave gave one final thrust deep inside my wife’s Pusssy, “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” my wife moaned and began cumming all over his cock, and he began kissing my lips passionately, I started cumming all over the floor.
The moment I came all over the floor, I started feeling guilty, started hating myself for letting it all happen and began putting my cock back inside.
His lips—hot, slow, unhurried—moved over her skin like silk poured from a sacred bowl.
And she… was unraveling.
From the inside out.
Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, but they were no longer gripping. Just resting there. Floating. As if she didn’t know what to do with her hands anymore.
Her belly fluttered—waves of sensation cresting and falling inside her. Her legs trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of being fully, wholly wanted.
Every place he kissed ignited a trail beneath her skin.
Her inner thighs throbbed with heat.
Her core pulsed with need.
Her chest felt hollow and full all at once.
She let out a breath—shaky, uneven—as if the air in her lungs had been borrowed and was now being returned to the gods.
He nuzzled the crease of her thigh again, exhaling warm breath over the most tender part of her.
She whimpered. Her knees buckled slightly.
Her free hand reached for his shoulder now, needing something to ground her.
Her skin, dewed with a faint sheen of sweat, shimmered in the golden afternoon light—like a woman reborn.
Time faded.
Thought faded.
There was no house. No Husband. No duties. No children. No shame. No memory of laundry or kitchen or neighbors.
There was only her body, and the man worshipping it. Slowly. Hungrily. Devotedly.
She could feel her breath pressing against the back of her throat—sharp, shallow. She was on the edge of something—something not quite climax, but close to it. A surrender of a different kind.
the dance master kissed her again, just below her navel. A soft, open-mouthed kiss that lingered.
Then his cheek brushed her mound. Not touching yet. Just resting.
And my wife felt herself give.
Her hips tilted forward.
A soft gasp escaped her lips.
She was ready to be taken, in every way a woman could be.
the dance master’s breath lingered against her most sensitive Pussy.
my wife stood trembling, thighs parted only slightly, her body humming, her soul somewhere between fear and fire.
He pressed one last kiss to the soft skin beside her center.
And then—he tasted her.
His lips met the very heart of Pussy, warm and slow, brushing her folds with exquisite care.
my wife’s entire body jolted.
Her fingers, tangled in his hair, gripped tighter. Her knees buckled, but his arms held her steady, anchoring her against the tide that surged through her from the inside out.
Her breath caught—then released in a gasp that sounded like surrender.
The dance master was patient. His mouth moved over her like poetry written in breath.
Each stroke of his tongue was deliberate, slow, and tender—like a man memorizing scripture with his mouth.
He didn't rush to devour.
He lingered.
He listened—to her breath, her twitching thighs, her fingers pulling his hair, the soft, helpless moans that fell from her lips like rain from a heavy sky.
My wife’s body began to lose form—no longer a shape, but sensation. Her head fell back, her lips parting wider, her moans growing deeper with each slow flick of his tongue.
the dance master pressed his tongue deeper now, firmer. His hands gripped the back of her thighs, spreading her just a little wider, holding her open to his mouth as if in silent prayer.
my wife gasped—sharp and high.
Her hips moved of their own accord now, rolling softly toward him, inviting more.
She was drenched. Needy. Unraveled.
Every flick, every kiss, every deep suckle pulled her closer to that brink—that sweet, unbearable cliff of pleasure where thought disappeared and only sensation remained.
Her legs trembled violently.
Her moans came faster, louder, almost desperate.
Her body screamed for release.
And the dance master, ever devoted, never wavered.
Her breath hitched.
Her thighs clamped briefly around his face, her hips rising up into his mouth.
And then—she froze.
Teetering on that exquisite edge.
Mouth open. Eyes fluttering. Fingernails buried in his shoulders.
She was there.
That moment of aching stillness before the wave crashes.
Her body had stopped moving—but only on the outside.
Inside, my wife was wildfire.
She stood at the brink, her thighs trembling, her belly fluttering, her breath stalled mid-moan like a choked prayer.
The dance master was still there.
Still kneeling.
Still kissing.
His mouth pressed softly, not demanding—just present. Just waiting for her to allow it. To fall.
But my wife didn’t fall yet.
She hovered.
Held in the arms of sensation so vast it made her afraid to move. To blink. To breathe.
Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, her throat tight with unshed sound.
The world around her was gone.
No floor. No fan. No walls.
Just the trembling in her thighs. The warmth of his breath. The wet pressure of his mouth. And the unbearable pleasure that clung to her like mist.
She could feel her body trying to let go.
Her muscles twitched. Her back arched slightly. Her toes curled.
But still—she resisted. Not from fear.
But from awe.
From wanting to remember this moment before it passed.
That aching, stretched-out second when she felt everything.
The worship. The want. The woman she had become in his hands.
the dance master didn’t move.
He felt her stillness.
He honored it.
His hands gently stroked her thighs. His mouth softened, only pressing his lips to her most tender place, holding her, kissing her like a secret he would never speak aloud.
He knew she was there—right at the edge.
And he waited.
For her.
For the moment she chose to fall, to trust, to dissolve.
my wife stood—bare, aroused, overwhelmed.
Her thighs quivered. Her heart thundered.
the dance master’s mouth had left her slick and pulsing, trembling on that breathless edge—but he hadn’t pushed her over it. Not yet.
And that not yet was excruciating.
It burned inside her like withheld lightning.
Her whole body was still humming. Her breath came in soft pants. Her toes curled on the floor.
Her hands trembled, reaching down for something—someone—to hold her through the storm.
the dance master lifted his face from between her thighs. His lips were damp with her essence. His eyes—dark, full, loving—looked up at her with a patience she didn’t deserve.
But she didn’t want patience now.
She wanted him.
The full weight of him. The warmth of his chest. The steadiness of his arms around her while her world melted.
Her legs moved before her mind caught up.
And then—she knelt.
my wife slowly dropped to the floor in front of him—graceful in her vulnerability. Her bare knees met the cool tiles beside his.
For a breath, they just looked at each other.
Like Two lovers. Two souls.
Both kneeling.
Both stripped.
Not just of clothes, but of hesitation, fear, and time.
And then—she wrapped her arms around him.
Not in seduction.
But in surrender.
She pressed her chest into his. Her face into his neck. Her arms clung to his back with a desperation that wasn’t about climax, but closeness.
“I need you,” she whispered—not aloud, but through the quiver of her fingers, the rhythm of her breath.
my wife pressed into him, her arms wrapped tight, her bare skin warm against his. Knees on the floor. Breasts against his chest. Her cheek nestled into the crook of his neck where his heartbeat drummed steady and low.
She wasn’t rushing toward release now.
She was simply... holding him. And being held.
And the dance master—his arms slid around her waist, pulling her in until there was no space left between their skin, between their breath, between their souls.
the dance master lifted his hand, gently stroking her hair back from her face.
He tilted his head.
Their eyes met—wet, wide, searching.
And then… he brought his forehead to hers.
No words passed between them.
But the silence was rich.
They breathed each other in, their mouths just inches apart. Warm air mingling. Sweat and love mingling.
He whispered nothing. And still, she heard everything.
Their lips met slowly—like a tide reaching the shore.
No hunger, no rush. Just... arrival.
His mouth moved against hers in slow rhythm, tender and full.
Her lips opened for him not with lust, but with need.
To be known.
To be kissed like she mattered.
As the dance master began inserting his cock inside my wife’s pussy and began enjoying himself making love to my wife on the floor, “mmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmm,” my wife to moan, and I began stroking my cock. “Mmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmm my God… What a Pussy you have, Sudha, mmmmmmmm….. I am gonna cum… I am gonna cum….,” as the dance master moaned, and began digging his cock deeper and deeper inside my wife’s pussy, “mmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” my wife began to moan, and the moment Rave gave one final thrust deep inside my wife’s Pusssy, “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” my wife moaned and began cumming all over his cock, and he began kissing my lips passionately, I started cumming all over the floor.
The moment I came all over the floor, I started feeling guilty, started hating myself for letting it all happen and began putting my cock back inside.
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