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

[novelistcasanova]

"The Dance Master Enjoyed My Innocent Wife"

By Novelist Casanova

The ceiling fan whirred lazily above, slicing through the thick, golden light of the Chennai morning. I stood at the archway, waiting for a mug of filter coffee, but my eyes had long left the cup.
Sudha was at the sink, her back turned to me—barefoot, unhurried, and utterly unaware of how divine she looked in that yellow chiffon saree. That saree… it clung to her like a lover’s second skin, almost transparent where the sun fell through the kitchen window, playing across her hips, dipping under the swell of her curves, whispering secrets with every movement.
She hadn’t pinned the saree properly today. It was carelessly pleated, hanging just below her navel, the golden border brushing that soft, dusky skin I’d kissed too few times in recent weeks. Her sleeveless blouse was a matching lemon-yellow—a deep-cut design I’d never seen before—with a bow-tied back that exposed the slope of her spine all the way down to the dip above her waist. I could just barely see the thin, white strap of her bra cutting across that tender line of her shoulder blades.
The blouse hugged her like sin. Her breasts were full—rounded, alive beneath the thin fabric. I could see their soft rise and fall with each breath, and I knew what cradled them underneath—her white cotton bra, old yet impossibly elegant against the rich honey of her skin.
As she bent slightly to reach for the vessel, the saree shifted. My breath caught.
Her black petticoat peeked out—drawstring knotted loosely, dipping dangerously low at the back, swaying as she moved. There was a raw softness to her body now—after three children and a decade of marriage—but to me, it was perfection. Her hips were wider now, her belly more tender, her thighs thick and womanly, and I had fallen for every new inch of her.
And then, as she reached up to place a plate on the rack—her nightie had dried on the balcony—I saw the unmistakable outline beneath her saree: the white panties she always wore under her petticoat. Modest. Cotton. But the way they cupped her… the way that saree outlined every curve of them in the morning light—it didn’t matter how simple they were. To me, they were worship.
She turned slightly, adjusting the blouse strap at her shoulder, and for a fleeting second, our eyes met.
I smiled.
But she didn’t notice.
She went back to humming that old Ilaiyaraaja tune, tapping her bangled fingers against the rim of the sink. Oblivious. Unbothered. A goddess dbangd in sunlight and steam.
And I stood there, forgotten for the moment—watching the woman I married, fall in love with her all over again.
As Sudha rinsed the last plate, her bangles tinkled softly—a melody that unlocked a door in my memory. A night years ago, when there were no dishes, no sons shouting about missing lunchboxes. Just her. Wrapped in bridal red, nervous fingers fumbling with her blouse hook, eyes lowered.
I remember the slow gasp that left her when I first slipped the saree off her shoulder. How her blouse opened like a secret. How the white of her bra then—simple, cotton, trembling with her breath—felt more erotic than anything lace could offer.
She had looked at me that night with fear, reverence, and something else—trust. The first time my fingers brushed the bare skin under her breast, she flinched. But she didn’t stop me.
“Ram…” she had whispered. “Be gentle…”
And I had. Every inch of her was explored with devotion, not haste. Her body was still learning to be touched, and I wanted to be her teacher.
Now, as she turned from the sink, towel in hand, her eyes met mine again—but this time, she smiled.
“Coffee” she asked, wiping her damp hands on the edge of her petticoat.
“Only if you sit with me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Her scent—jasmine shampoo and fresh detergent—was undoing me.
She sat at the table, one leg tucked under the other. The saree slid slightly, revealing her ankle, a glimpse of that black petticoat’s hem, and a flash of white beneath it.
I reached for the sugar bowl, but my hand brushed hers.
She didn’t pull away.
Instead, her fingers lingered—light, curious.
“You’re staring again,” she said softly, teasing.
“I always do when you look like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like the reason I breathe.”
She blushed, biting her lower lip. The same lip I had kissed countless times. The same one she bit on our wedding night when my hand slid between her thighs for the first time.
She picked up her coffee, sipped slowly, and looked out the window.
“I’m late,” she murmured, brushing her pallu across her chest, hiding her blouse’s bold cut again. “Ravi sir won’t like it.”
I almost said I don’t like it either.
But I stayed silent, and went to the Balcony to finish my coffee.
She rushed to the Bathroom to get ready.
As she came out of the Bathroom, she thought I had gone to take a call.
But I lingered, half-hidden in the hallway, coffee forgotten in my hand, as she walked softly into the bedroom. The door remained half-open—like her, never fully guarded, never fully closed.
The yellow chiffon saree lay dbangd across the bed, waiting like a promise. The black petticoat was already tied low around her hips, the drawstring dangling loose, swinging against her navel with each quiet step.
She moved with a rhythm only I knew—a grace made of habit and heat.
And then she reached for the drawer.
From it, she took her white cotton panties—simple, folded, still warm from the morning sun—and stepped into them. Her hands held the waistband delicately, guiding the soft fabric up her thighs, over the gentle swell of her hips. She adjusted them at the sides, tugged slightly, letting them settle in the way she liked. Not too high. Not too tight. The elastic nestled into her curves like memory.
Next, the bra.
She slipped the white cups over her arms, lifted her breasts gently into them—like a woman who has learned to care for herself in silence. The cotton stretched over her softness, lifting and shaping, encasing what I’d kissed so reverently on our first night. She turned slightly, reached behind, fingers fumbling for the hooks, and caught her reflection in the mirror.
That moment stilled me.
Her body, half-dressed, half-revealed—was a temple caught between devotion and temptation.
She adjusted the straps, ran her fingers along the line where skin met fabric. A small crease formed between her brows—she was checking the fit, always slightly annoyed with this old, faithful bra that clung to her like memory.
And then—she smiled to herself.
It wasn’t a vain smile.
It was the smile of a woman remembering she was still beautiful.
She pulled the black petticoat over the waistband of her panties, letting the soft cotton hug her from hip to ankle. Her blouse came next—a sleeveless, lemon-yellow one I hadn’t seen in months. She slipped it over her head, the loose armholes revealing the white straps beneath.
She struggled with the hooks at the back, her arms bent awkwardly, breasts shifting gently within the cotton cups. I could see the slight jiggle, the tender resistance of flesh within fabric. The blouse, once fastened, hugged her tight—too tight, almost. She smoothed it down, frowning at a little puff of softness near her side.
She didn’t know I was watching.
But I was.
God, I was.
Then came the saree.
She lifted it like silk water, pleated it with long, practiced fingers, and tucked it into her petticoat—deep, firm, slightly to the left. The movement made her blouse shift again, revealing the side slope of her bra. She didn’t notice.
Or perhaps… some part of her wanted to be seen.
The final touch—the pallu over her shoulder. It slid into place, then slipped slightly, as if it too refused to hide her fully.
She turned, checking herself in the mirror, hands on her waist, tilting side to side. Her hips moved with such ease—fluid, ripe with an unconscious sensuality that could bring a man to his knees.
And I, standing in the hallway, nearly was.
She looked at herself one last time, adjusted her bindi, and left the room—light on her feet, heavy on my heart.




The sound of her anklets trailed behind her as she stepped out onto the sun-warmed veranda. I stood by the curtains, barely breathing, watching her cross the gate with that careful grace—modest, composed, and yet so vividly sensual that it felt obscene to the air around her.
She adjusted her pallu as the auto-rickshaw approached. The yellow chiffon slipped from her shoulder, briefly baring the deep curve of her blouse back—the bow-tied string dancing just above the black petticoat’s waistband. The auto came to a gentle halt, coughing dust into the sunlight. She ducked slightly and stepped in.
As she sat, the saree lifted just an inch above her ankles. The breeze rushed in. Her pallu fluttered like a breath against her cheek, and I caught a glimpse of the fabric clinging to the inner curve of her thigh. She tugged at it instinctively, not knowing she was performing a ritual of seduction I’d never tire of watching.
Her bangles clicked together as she held onto the metal bar of the auto’s roof. The driver turned his head to speak to her, then paused—eyes lingering. I knew that look. Every man in this city had turned into a worshipper in Sudha’s accidental temple.
As the auto pulled away, I noticed her adjusting her blouse strap again, pulling it slightly inward to cover the edge of her bra. Her fingers moved with the ease of habit, of a woman used to managing heat, fabric, and modesty in public. And yet… the very act made my mouth dry.
She leaned slightly to one side to check her bag—her waist arching subtly, the outline of her white panties barely visible through the thin cotton of her petticoat. She sat unaware that I watched her like a man watches a moment he knows will soon break.
And it did.
Because I followed.
Not in another auto.
In my own car, slowly, discreetly, with every turn of the road winding deeper into something I wasn’t ready to admit:
Jealousy.
Or was it fear?
The house was unusually quiet.
Our sons had left for college, their voices and tumbling footsteps long faded into the morning. I had slipped into a soft nap on the diwan near the bay window—half-dbangd in sunlight, half-dbangd in the scent of Sudha that still lingered in the air like jasmine after rain.
When I woke, there was a silence that felt… incomplete. A presence missing.
I stood, stretched, and reached for my coat. My court hours would begin soon. I was about to leave when I noticed it—her phone, still on the charger by the bedside table, the screen glowing gently with a missed call from Ravi Sir.
I picked it up slowly.
Not out of suspicion.
But out of instinct.
Her name flashed on the lock screen: “Sudha Devi ?” — a name I had saved long ago, in our early days, when every message from her thrilled me like a secret.
She hadn’t even realized she’d left it behind.
I ran my fingers along the phone’s edge. It was warm from charging, and something about it—this little piece of her, buzzing quietly in my palm—moved me.
Let me give it to her on the way.
Just a gesture. A thoughtful husband. Perhaps she'd smile when I surprised her. Perhaps I’d even see her dance, maybe for the first time.
I slipped the phone into my pocket, grabbed my briefcase, and left.
Chennai’s midday sun hit different—it was blinding, golden, thick with the scent of road dust, fried vadas, and hibiscus blooms straining on their branches. The traffic whined and coughed, but my mind was calm.
Until I reached the studio.
It stood behind a high gate, an old bungalow-turned-art-space, with bougainvillea climbing the outer walls like red lace. The wooden nameplate read “Natana Sudha – college of Classical Dance.”
Her name. Sudha. Coincidence?
No.
The air was cooler inside the gate. Still. Quiet, except for the faint hum of a tanpura recording echoing from within. I climbed the steps slowly. Her phone in one hand, the other brushing lightly against my chest pocket, where her old love letters still sometimes hid.
I stood outside the half-closed studio door.
And that’s when I heard it.
Her laughter.
Low. Breathless. Giddy.
And then—his voice. Calm. Commanding.
“Loosen your hip. Like this… yes, Sudha… trust your body.”
I froze.
My fingers clutched the phone tighter.
Not yet suspicion.
Just a pulse that had quickened without permission.
I didn’t knock.
I didn’t call out.
I just… looked.



The door creaked faintly as I nudged it open.
And what I saw first was yellow.
Her saree—our saree, the one I’d chosen for her last Deepavali—now drenched in sweat and motion, clinging to her like desire made fabric.
Sudha was at the center of the mirrored studio, alone except for him. Her back was to me, the arch of her spine clear where her pallu had slipped. The bow of her blouse had come undone—hanging like a lazy sigh at the base of her back. Her black petticoat was riding low, the white edge of her panties peeking out as she turned, unaware.
My breath caught.
But it wasn’t lust.
It was… something else.
The dance master, Ravi, stood close—too close. One hand gently guided her hip, the other lifted her elbow like he was sculpting her out of air. His voice was soft, coaxing. Her eyes were closed. Her lips, parted slightly.
Her movements—once hesitant—were fluid now. Liquid. The kind of grace you only offer when the mind has let go of shame. Her hips rolled, her chest lifted, and the blouse pulled tight against her breasts with each breath. The soft cotton of her bra was visible, damp, outlined beneath the fabric.
She twirled once.
And in that moment—her saree came loose from her shoulder.
It slid.
And I saw it all.
The blouse barely clinging. Her stomach glistening. The deep line of her waist, the navel I had once kissed with trembling reverence. She didn’t reach for the pallu. She let it fall.
And he didn’t stop her.
He moved in. Slowly. A practiced touch to her waist.
Then his hands grazed her arms.
Then—he hugged her.
Strangely I start feeling horny watching my wife getting hugging by the Dance Master.
Their bodies met in a way that wasn’t choreography.
Sudha didn’t pull away.
She breathed in. Her head tilted to the side, lips trembling.
My hands tightened around the phone I came to return.
I wasn’t angry.
I was… outside my own skin. Like I’d left my body and stood next to myself, watching the moment unravel with unbearable softness.
Then—
Then, Ravi’s hands began to slide down her back.
Fingers moved toward the base of her blouse.

Sudha stood still in the center of the room, her yellow pallu now barely hanging off one shoulder, her blouse clinging, damp and translucent in the places where sweat kissed her skin. The low knot of her petticoat was dangerously slack, and when she turned slightly, I saw the soft line of her white panties outlined through the fabric.
Then I heard it.
His voice—quiet, coaxing, firm.
“Don’t hold back. Embrace me properly, Sudha. Like a real partner. Arms around my neck… like this.”
She blinked, unsure.
Her hands lifted slowly, trembling slightly at first. Then, one by one, her arms encircled him. Around his neck. Her breasts pressing lightly against his chest. Her face close enough to his cheek to feel his breath.
And still, she didn’t open her eyes.
But I could see her.
The way her chest rose.
The way her thighs shifted under the soft tug of the petticoat.
The way her fingers… lingered around the back of his neck.
Ravi’s hands slid to her lower back. He held her firmly, almost possessively, guiding her body closer to his. Their hips aligned now. Her head rested near his shoulder, her ear against the base of his throat.
And she—
She breathed in deeply.
Her lashes fluttered.
Her lips parted.
And then it happened.
A slow, unmistakable tilt of her hips forward—a shift that wasn’t part of the dance.
Sudha’s breath turned shallow. Her chest rose sharply. She pressed her thighs together, almost involuntarily. Her back arched ever so slightly into his body.
She was feeling something. Something deep. Raw. Dangerous.
She was getting aroused.
I could see it not in her movements, but in the stillness that followed.
A stillness charged with the thrum of a woman awakening—not just to touch, but to herself.
That was the moment I forgot to breathe.
My wife.
In another man’s arms.
And her body… betraying her.
Ravi didn’t let her go.
Their embrace shifted. Slowly. Intimately.
He held her close, his hands guiding her hips in a circular rhythm, murmuring something low into her ear that made her nod, eyes still closed.
Then—he lowered his stance, and with a graceful pull, he drew her down with him to the wooden floor. First her knees touched. Then his.
Sudha followed without question.
It looked like dance—but it wasn’t.
It was choreography disguised as closeness.
Art, masking desire.
He moved with her—arching, turning, rolling across the polished wood in a flow of limbs and breath. Their bodies locked at the hip, her blouse rising slightly with every movement, revealing the slope of her waist, the dip of her spine, and the shadow between her breasts where her pallu had long abandoned her.
Their breathing quickened—not from exertion, but something else.
Ravi’s hand slid under the arch of her back, lifting her slightly. She fell forward onto him, her thighs straddling his hips, the petticoat bunching higher than modesty allowed.
And then—he paused the dance.
His fingers brushed her hair from her shoulder. Gently.
She didn’t stop him.
He leaned in. His lips, slow and deliberate, lowered to her neck.
And kissed her.




Just once.

Not harsh.
Not hurried.
A soft press of lips—just below her ear.
And Sudha…
She shuddered.
Her mouth parted.
Her head tilted to give him more skin.
Her thighs pressed firmer around his hips.
Her fingers curled against his chest.
And her breathing…
Her breathing changed.
It became shallow. Trembling. Heavy with something unspeakable.
My wife was losing herself.
Right there.
On the studio floor.
In another man’s arms.
Their bodies moved slower now—closer, too close to still be called dancing.
Sudha sat on her knees in front of him, cheeks flushed, strands of hair sticking to her temple. The blouse clung to her chest, slightly damp and glowing golden in the slant of late-morning light.
Ravi rose first. Calm. Composed.
And then he said it—his voice low but firm.
“Remove your saree, Sudha. It’s restricting your movement. You’re holding back.”
Her eyes widened. She looked down at herself. The chiffon clung to her, its pleats pulled loose and disobedient, the pallu almost falling away.
“I—I can dance with it,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
He stepped closer. “Not like this. You’re ready to feel your body fully. Let go. Trust yourself. Trust me.”
She hesitated.
And in that hesitation, I saw it.
Shame.
Curiosity.
Longing.
She stood up.
Her hands rose slowly to her waist.
Her fingers found the pleats and began to loosen them. One by one, they fell from her grip, the folds unraveling like a secret being untied. The yellow chiffon whispered down her hips, slid past the knot of her petticoat, and puddled silently at her feet.
She didn’t look at him.
She didn’t look at herself.
She stood—still, vulnerable, alive—in just her sleeveless yellow blouse and black cotton petticoat, which hugged her curves closely and dipped just low enough to reveal the soft, tender curve above her hips.
Her arms wrapped around herself lightly, instinctively.
But she didn’t stop.
She stood there, half-exposed, half-lost, breathing hard—not from movement, but from the pounding inside her.
I wanted to scream her name.
But I couldn’t even breathe.  I was feeling horny.  SHAMELESSLY


To Be Continued...!!

[novelistcasanova]

She hadn’t looked up since letting the saree fall.

Her yellow blouse clung to her like a second skin—cut low at the back, the damp cotton outlining her bra straps beneath. The black petticoat hugged her hips firmly, and with the saree gone, her body felt startlingly bare—open in a way I had never seen her be with anyone else.
Ravi stepped forward.
No music now.
Just breath.
And silence.
And the thrum of something far too intimate pulsing in the air.
He raised his hands and touched her waist.
She didn’t flinch.
Slowly, he pulled her closer—again.
Like before.
Only this time, skin touched skin.
His arm slid around her back. His other hand rested flat against her petticoat’s curve. And just like that, he began to move with her—dancing.
It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t loud.
It was slow.
Deliberate.
A sway.
A press.
A pause.
Their hips brushed as he turned her. Her hands found his shoulders. Her fingers gripped lightly.
Her chest pressed against him with every sway.
Her blouse—thin, breath-warm, damp—revealed too much.
And then…
She let out a soft exhale.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
Her breath caught at the top of her throat.
Her thighs pressed together slightly, instinctively.
Her hips faltered, then pushed back against his lead.
Her body betrayed her restraint.
Sudha was getting aroused.
And I knew that breath.
I knew that tremble.
It was the same one she gave me, years ago, on the nights she didn’t speak but only pulled me to her slowly, shyly, silently begging to be undone.
But this wasn’t our bed.
And those weren’t my arms.
She was trying to fight it—I could see it in the way her fingers clutched too tightly, her jaw tensed, her eyes stayed closed too long.
But her body…
Her body had slipped beyond obedience.
And Ravi…
Ravi just kept dancing.
Leading.
Guiding.
Owning the rhythm.
The Dance Floor had grown quieter now.
The Music had long faded into silence. Only the ceiling fan hummed above, and the whisper of breath between two bodies filled the space where music once lived.
The dance master stood close behind her, his chest bare, his arms wrapping around my wife’s waist like vines curling around a beloved tree. She was warm, soft in his hold, her skin flush from the dancing, the teasing, the unfamiliar sensation of being undressed so slowly.
She wore only her yellow blouse now—its short sleeves wrinkled slightly from his fingers—and her black petticoat, knotted tightly at her hip. The absence of the saree made her feel exposed in a way she hadn’t in years. But in the dance master’s embrace, she didn’t feel shame.
Only heat.
He pulled her tighter, pressing his chest against her back, his chin grazing her shoulder.
“Beautiful Sudha,” he murmured, voice deep, lips brushing her skin.
my wife swallowed.
Her hands fidgeted at her stomach, unsure whether to cover herself or pull him closer. She did neither.
The dance master’s palms slowly found her hands and slid upward, over her blouse, until they cupped the weight of her breasts, through the thin, worn cotton. His touch wasn’t rushed—it was reverent, almost like prayer.
She exhaled shakily.
“the dance master…”
“Hmm?” he whispered, lips grazing her earlobe.
Her thighs pressed together instinctively.
There was something in the way his fingers kneaded her gently, in the way his body warmed her back like the midday sun through the window. Her breath began to catch on its way out, chest rising in slow, shallow waves.
He rocked her gently, his hips moving with hers in a quiet rhythm.
“You’re dancing beautifully,” he said.
She nodded faintly.
But this wasn’t like before.
This wasn’t for the sake of music.
This was her body responding on its own—flesh stirring, a slow ache building low in her stomach, her thoughts beginning to blur like paint bleeding into water.
The world narrowed to the points where his skin touched hers.
The room no longer existed. Only his arms. Only her breath.
And something else.
A soft throb.
A heat blooming, deeper than her skin.
Her head tilted back onto his shoulder as her body betrayed her—a sigh escaping her lips, not from exertion, but need.
my wife’s knees trembled slightly. Her lips parted.
She was… feeling something.
Not just held.
Not just touched.
Something deeper, heavier, warmer between her legs—like a pulse, like hunger.
Something long-forgotten was waking up inside her.
And she didn’t want to stop it.
Not yet.

[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…”

[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.

[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.

[novelistcasanova]

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. 

[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

[Yesudoss]

cucky husband fucky wife.

[Deepak Sanjeev]

Please continue this by bringing Ravi to her home in search of her and affair continue without husband knowledge while he is in office. Ravi fuck her in every room of the house.

[Ragasiyananban]

Very very nice

[raasug]

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.

The mixed feelings of a husband is well explained ! I felt like as if I was at the scene .
I appreciate the Great writing skills of the Author

[Sarran Raj]

Amazing writing, I felt she is not innocent wife.

[raasug]

... .... 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.

Win-Win Situation !

The feelings and emotions are well narrated !

Happy End 

Great story ! Fantastic writing !

[novelistcasanova]

cucky husband fucky wife.

Thank you 
--------------------------------


Well, if you observe Ram, carefully, he is not actually that, strangely he got excited watching his wife getting kissed and fondled by the Dance Master.  He was new to this feeling, but after he cums, he feels guilty.

[novelistcasanova]

Please continue this by bringing Ravi to her home in search of her and affair continue without husband knowledge while he is in office. Ravi fuck her in every room of the house.

Thank you
----------------------------------------------------------------
The husband and wife, both feel guilty and I think they would try to move on with life.

[novelistcasanova]

The mixed feelings of a husband is well explained ! I felt like as if I was at the scene .
I appreciate the Great writing skills of the Author

Thank you so much raasug.   
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I actually feel sorry for the husband, he could have at least stopped the Dance Master when he was grabbing his wife Panties and pulling it down.

[raasug]

The husband and wife, both feel guilty and I think they would try to move on with life.

In real life situations that is how it happens. That is your skill of bringing up the real life situations in the story !

[novelistcasanova]

Very very nice

Thank you

[novelistcasanova]

In real life situations that is how it happens. That is your skill of bringing up the real life situations in the story !

Very True raasug