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

[novelistcasanova]

That’s when my wife started to feel the same.

Her eyes widened. Her hands, still tangled in the dance master’s hair, dropped. Her body pulled back. The warmth turned cold—not because of him, but because of what rose inside her now like a wave she hadn’t seen coming.
Guilt.
Thick. Sharp. Suffocating.
Her heart thundered in her chest, not with arousal now—but with a kind of sorrow she couldn’t name.
“I… I shouldn’t have…” she whispered, voice breaking.
my wife stood abruptly, chest bare, body still glowing from all she had just felt.
And yet, her arms flew across her chest—not to shield herself from him, but from her own reflection.
Tears welled in her eyes.
She reached for the white panties at her feet and quickly stepped into them, pulling them up with trembling hands.
Her bra came next—she fumbled with the hooks, her fingers slick with tears. She managed to clasp it but couldn’t stop the sob that escaped her lips.
The dance master rose slowly, silent, watching with wide, aching eyes. He didn’t stop her.
He couldn’t.
She was inside something now—something only she could move through.
She reached for the black petticoat and stepped into it quickly, drawing the ties around her waist. Her blouse—yellow, sleeveless, cheerful—felt too bright now. Too light for the heaviness inside her chest. But she wore it anyway, tugging it over her white bra.
Her final act—dbanging the yellow chiffon saree—was done with trembling hands. The fabric clung to her skin, still damp with sweat and shame.
Each layer felt like armor.
Like she was trying to stitch herself back into the version of the woman who had first entered this room.
But something had shifted.
And the silence between her and the dance master… said everything.
my wife didn’t look at him as she stepped toward the door.
Her chin trembled.
Her eyes were glass.
She paused once—hand on the knob—her body still quivering from everything they’d shared… and everything she now felt.
And then—
She left the studio.
By the time she came out of the Studio, I went to my Car.


That night, I watched her sleep.
The yellow saree she wore was dbangd over the chair, still smelling faintly of sandalwood, sweat, and talcum powder.
I stared at it like it was a crime scene.
She had curled up in her nightie, one leg over the other, her arm beneath the pillow. Her hair fell over her cheek. She looked like the woman I had married.
No—softer now. More alive. More… beautiful.
But I couldn’t reach her.
Even when I reached out, I couldn’t hold her the same way anymore.
Not after what I’d seen.
Not after what I’d imagined a hundred times since.
I wanted to ask her.
I wanted to scream at her.
I wanted to beg her not to go back.
But I said nothing.
Because the truth was darker than betrayal.
It was this:
She had returned to me.
And I had lost her anyway.
She stood at the mirror the next morning, pinning jasmine into her braid.
The blouse was new. A darker yellow. Sleeveless again. The same curve of her shoulder. The same softness at the small of her back.
“Do I look nice?” she asked, turning slightly, petticoat rustling.
And I—
I couldn't lie anymore.
“Don’t go to the studio today.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“I went there once,” I said. “To give you your phone.”
Her fingers froze.
She turned slowly. “Ram…”
“I saw everything.”
A long silence. Then—
“Not everything.”
My heart stilled.
“I stopped it,” she whispered, her eyes softening. “I remembered you.”
“But did you forget me first?” I asked.
And there it was.
The line between pain and poetry.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t fall to her knees or beg for forgiveness.
She simply stood there, in that golden morning light, the jasmine in her hair wilting slightly… like her voice.
“I was disappearing,” she said, softly.
“Into being a wife, a mother, someone who made rasam and packed tiffins.
When I danced, I felt something stretch inside me. Something mine.
I didn’t go there to betray you.
But I lost my balance.”
I listened.
She came closer.
And then she placed my hand on her waist—the same spot Ravi had touched, once, too long.
“Do you still want me, Ram?”
It was not a plea.
It was a truth.
Her body was warm. Her skin, trembling. Not from shame now—but from the terror of being unloved.
I didn’t answer. I just held her. Not possessively. Not hungrily.
Just… with the quiet grace of someone choosing love over pride.
“I won’t go back,” she whispered.
“I know,” I replied.
Later that night, I saw her dancing.
Not at the studio.
Not with music.
Just in our dim bedroom, with the window open and the moonlight soft on her shoulders.
She swayed, barefoot on the tiles, her yellow nightie catching the breeze.
No choreography. No eyes watching.
Just movement.
Just her.
And for the first time in weeks, I felt something loosen inside me too.
Not jealousy.
Not triumph.
But forgiveness.
She was still mine.
Not because I owned her.
But because she chose to return.

The End

Regards:
Novelist Casanova