Read Novel Full Chapter 756: Dance, Fingers and Her Pussy (r-18)
Chapter 756: Dance, Fingers and Her Pussy (r-18)
Pirouette combination. My hand steady at her waist, the other guiding her arm through the preparation. She spun—four rotations this time, faster, sharper—and I matched her timing perfectly, supporting just enough to extend her balance without interfering with her technique.
Except halfway through I released her waist.
She kept spinning.
Seven rotations. Eight. Nine.
I’d given her enough momentum and perfect enough balance that she didn’t need support anymore and enough stimulation that she was seconds from coming mid-spin.
She finished, stumbled slightly, and I was there—catching her before she fell, steadying her, bringing her back to center with my hand now fully inside her leotard, two fingers buried deep in her spasming cunt.
"I’ve never..." She was breathing hard, eyes wide, hips grinding shamelessly against my hand. "Nine rotations. I’ve never done nine rotations in my life... and I’ve never been this fucking close to coming on a man’s fingers while still spinning."
"You just did."
We moved through increasingly complex partnering. Lifts that required perfect timing and absolute trust.
Overhead press lift where I elevated her straight above my head, her body extended in a penché position, completely horizontal eight feet off the ground.
But then I threw her up another two feet and caught her again.
Just to show I could.
Just to show her what was possible with a partner who had perfect strength, perfect timing, perfect control and who knew exactly how to finger-fuck her dripping pussy mid-air without dropping her.
She was trembling now. Not from fear. From the realization of what was happening and from the edge of an orgasm she was being denied.
She wasn’t dancing anymore.
She was being transcended and ruined.
Every lift, every support, every moment of contact was showing her a level of partnering she’d never experienced. Never even imagined was possible.
The music shifted. Slower now. More intimate.
And I changed the choreography into something that would break her understanding of what ballet could be and what her own body could take before she screamed my name and soaked the studio floor.
Third Movement: The Masterclass
I guided her into a développé à la seconde—leg extending to the side, rising slowly from bent to straight, climbing higher until it was level with her head.
My hand supported her thigh, not lifting, just providing stability so she could focus entirely on the extension while my palm pressed hot and deliberate against the soaked crotch of her leotard, feeling every twitch of her swollen clit beneath the fabric.
"Higher," I said quietly.
She pushed further. The angle increasing past what she thought was her limit as I dragged one finger slowly along her dripping slit through the thin material, teasing the entrance without entering.
"You’re holding back," I murmured, hand steady. "Your flexibility is better than this. Trust the support and trust how fucking wet you get when I touch you like this."
She breathed, relaxed fractionally, and her leg climbed another impossible inch while her hips rolled shamelessly against my hand, chasing more friction.
"There. That’s your real line."
But I wasn’t done.
I traced my fingers down her extended leg—professional, anatomical—finding every point of tension then sliding them back up, hooking the leg of her leotard aside and sinking two fingers knuckle-deep into her slick, clenching cunt.
"You’re gripping in your calf. Release it. The height comes from hip flexibility, not leg tension... and your pussy is gripping my fingers like it never wants to let go."
She released. Her leg floated another two inches higher as her inner walls fluttered hard around my thrusting fingers, a fresh flood of wetness coating my palm.
"Now your ankle. You’re holding it flexed. Point through the arch."
She pointed. The line cleaned up, became exquisite while I curled my fingers inside her, stroking that perfect spot that made her thighs quake.
"That’s one hundred and eighty degrees. Perfect à la seconde. You’ve been capable of this the entire time. Your teachers just never pushed you to find it or fucked you open while you did it."
I guided her through the descent, then immediately into the opposite side. Same corrections. Same revelations that she’d been unconsciously limiting herself same filthy fingering, same obscene wet sounds filling the studio.
We flowed into an attitude promenade. Slow rotation, her standing leg en relevé, the other bent behind her in attitude position. My hands at her waist, rotating her through the full 360 degrees while she maintained perfect balance my cock grinding shamelessly against her ass with every slow turn.
But this time, instead of just rotating her, I taught her.
"Your supporting hip is dropping," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "Engage the obliques. Lift through the standing side and clench that pretty cunt around my fingers while you do it."
She adjusted. The line cleaned up instantly and her pussy spasmed so hard I felt it in my wrist.
"Better. Now extend the attitude leg. Not higher—longer. Stretch through the knee. Imagine someone pulling your toes away from your body."
She did. Her position transformed from good to exquisite as I fucked her deeper, thumb now circling her throbbing clit in relentless rhythm.
"Your turnout in the standing leg," I continued as we rotated. "You’re losing it in the hip. Rotate from the socket, not the knee. Feel the difference?"
She adjusted. Gasped. "Oh my god. It’s so much easier and I’m going to come if you keep doing that."
"Because it’s correct. Most dancers compensate with the wrong muscles. Once you fix the rotation, everything gets easier and your cunt gets even wetter."
We moved through the choreography and I corrected everything. Not harshly. Not judgmentally. Just... perfectly while finger-fucking her through every adagio, every balance, every extension, until her legs shook and her tears mixed with the sweat on her cheeks.
The angle of her shoulders in a port de bras—"Drop your shoulders back and down. You’re holding tension in your traps while you squeeze my fingers like a vice."
The rotation of her supporting leg in a penché—"Spiral the inner thigh forward. Your turnout is beautiful but you’re not using it fully and your clit is so swollen I can feel it pulsing."
The engagement of her core in a sustained balance—"Pull your navel to spine. Core engagement makes balance effortless and makes you take my fingers deeper."
Every correction made her better. Made her lines cleaner, her movement more powerful, her technique more refined and her pussy closer to shattering.
She was crying now. Actually crying. Tears streaming down her face as she danced and ground shamelessly on my hand, chasing the orgasm I’d been edging her toward for minutes.
This wasn’t just partnering.
This was a fucking masterclass from someone who understood dance at a level she’d never encountered and who knew exactly how to ruin her cunt while teaching her to dance like a goddess.
I guided her into a supported adagio sequence. Slow, controlled movements that required immense strength to maintain.
Développé front, transitioning through à la seconde to arabesque—a complete arc that took twenty counts of music and demanded perfect control throughout and twenty counts of me slowly, torturously fucking her dripping hole while she held the positions.
The music built toward its climax.
One final lift.
One final lesson.
For her to come...