Obligatory trigger warning… this story contains some gray area stuff that might not be everyone’s cup of tea. You’ve been warned. Also sorry this is LONG.
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When I was in elementary/junior high school, I was in band. I played the clarinet, and had enough aptitude that if I actually practiced, I could be good. But like most kids that age, I really didn’t have the discipline to do so. So my parents signed me up for professional lessons, which took place on Wednesdays or Thursdays after school in a spare classroom at the junior high. The teacher, Mr. S, was a fairly young guy; though he seemed old to me at the time he couldn’t have been more than 30. He wore a dress shirt and slacks, the same pair every time, as if he didn’t have more in the way of wardrobe items. His brown hair was tightly curled against his skull and always either glisteningly gelled down or frizzed out like a brillo pad. His face had the acne-scarred texture of an orange rind. Although he was conventionally proportionate and I couldn’t pick out anything specific about his appearance that was off-putting except his skin, he kind of gave off this strange vibe that made me slightly uneasy. Not always, but sometimes the way his brown eyes would glint with an unnamed intensity would catch me by surprise. At the time, I had the child-like thought that he could tell I was lying about practicing, and that’s why his gaze would pierce through me while I played. But if so he never explicitly called me out on it.
In fact, Mr. S. was very complimentary. He’d tell me how talented I was, and how good I could be if I really committed to practicing every day. Whatever my feelings were about him, getting praise from an adult felt good, and I did just enough practicing to keep them coming. I liked the thought of myself as gifted, and preened at the extra attention. I almost didn’t notice the strange behavior of Mr. S. until after the fact, though I must’ve known something was off on a gut level. I don’t have the timeline exactly right, but while the incidents may be out of order, the end result remains.
One afternoon I had a clarinet lesson on the same night as a concert performance. My parents couldn’t give me a ride back and forth twice, so I brought my performance clothes to school with me. I was wearing a white button-up blouse and black knee-length skirt with my brand new black ballet slippers which were popular at the time. And though I was usually perpetually in a ponytail, I decided to wear my hair loose. I was almost late to my lesson from getting carried away admiring my new shoes, and Mr. S. was already standing by the board writing in musical notation. I steeled myself for a disappointed look when he turned around, but he just looked at me silently while I assembled my clarinet, flustered. I looked up at him, awaiting direction, antsy in the silence, until he said, “You look very grown up and pretty today. I like your hair like that.” And then resumed my lesson.
After that I nearly always wore my hair down to lessons. It wasn’t that I wanted to look sexually appealing to Mr. S., the thought didn’t even occur to me. I just think it’s every 11-year-old girl’s desire to be thought of as grown up and mature. And this incident, isolated, doesn’t even seem out of the ordinary to a casual observer. All of these little incidents accumulated so slowly that while initially my intuition would tingle, soon it would be out of my mind or attributed to something else.
For example Mr. S. was sometimes moody. One day I was waiting for him in the classroom, and he happened to be fifteen minutes late. I assembled and warmed up my clarinet, and sat there waiting for him. When he finally came bursting through the door in a flurry, I felt a little smugness that I wasn’t the late one for once. But his eyes scanned the room.
“Where is the music stand?”
Usually Mr. S. came early and retrieved this stuff from the band room, so I hadn’t even thought to go get one. I got the piercing gaze.
“My wife is in Japan right now, teaching English. You know what she says is the difference between kids there and kids here? It’s that the Japanese infer meaning without being spoon-fed. Next time, get the music stand without being told.” I nodded. It wasn’t unusual for him to randomly “teach me a lesson” or make an arbitrary point. And now it made sense why he was sometimes on edge. His wife lived 5000 miles away? To a kid my age that sounded like the old “I have a boyfriend in another town” lie, rather than the hardship it would have been.
One of those kinds of unorthodox teaching methods was when Mr. S. taught me about breath support. I had a particularly long run to get through, and I was clumsily having to take a breath in the middle because I couldn’t play the music at full speed yet. Mr. S. told me to bring my chair around to face him. “Closer,” he said, until my knees were nested inside his. They weren’t touching, but the body heat between us felt like a force field. He then grabbed my clarinet and spun the mouthpiece around. “You blow, I play. Don’t stop till I tell you.” I had to awkwardly lean forward while I took the clarinet in my mouth and blew. His fingers danced along the body of the instrument, deftly playing the passage I’d been neglecting to practice. The phallic nature of this position wasn’t lost on me even then, though I assumed Mr. S. was unaware of it. So I just blushed and went with it. I could feel his eyes boring into me so I tried to mostly look away until his hands stilled. I looked up, still weakly blowing into the clarinet. “I told you you could do it. Now sit up and let me see you breathe.” I straightened up in my chair. His gaze fell to my chest. I knew he was monitoring my breath but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was also looking at my tiny breasts. They were really nothing to speak of. Suddenly, he placed a hand on my chest. My breath quickened and his touch felt like I was being burned.
“See, you’re breathing in your chest. It’s shallow. You need to breathe from your belly.” His hand brushed me lightly as it came to a stop on my stomach. “Breathe like you’re filling a basketball in your stomach.”
He rested his hand there while I breathed. Finally he let go. I started to feel uneasiness… I felt like there was an underlying tension, but I wasn’t sure if I was putting that on the situation or if it was really there. Was I the weird one, for making the mental leap to perceive a sexual nature to his touch? I just couldn’t be sure. But the thought made me feel tingly and nauseous. I didn’t like him at all, but I did ache to be recognized as a sexual being by boys. I was both repulsed and intrigued by this strange dynamic.
Mr. S. took to beating out the tempo on my leg when I dragged. Again, totally within the realm of plausible deniability. Just like when he made me blow while he played. But every so often he’d edge slowly up my thigh, or give me a friendly squeeze when I’d gotten through a piece without any mistakes. I just quieted my mind and told myself that to think he had any bad intentions was a ridiculous and pervy thought. I started to dread my lessons. I both feared him and wanted to please him, but feared that if I did too well these friendly touches would increase. I was sick of feeling guilty from not practicing, too.
Things all came to a head one afternoon when I was trying to play music on the off beat. Mr. S. was getting impatient with my fumbling. He patted his knee.
“Have a seat here. I’m going to tap out the rhythm with my leg and tap on your back for the down beat.”
I automatically obeyed, and only became aware of the fact that I was wearing a skirt after I had perched on the end of his knee. There was nothing but the thin cotton of my panties between my little pussy and his slack-clad leg.
He began to bounce his knee up and down as he counted me in. To my growing embarrassment, each bounce jiggled me on impact in a way that felt good between my legs. The movement was particularly pronounced all the way out on his knee, so I subtly tried to scooch back. That was worse as I had to spread my legs wider. I tried to slide back up. The back and forth motion felt good on my little button. I started to subconsciously move my hips in time to the beat. As if in response, his bouncing became stronger, and I could feel the warmth spreading in my pussy. I struggled to play the clarinet as I felt sexual twinge deep in my belly from the way my pussy rubbed on this grown man’s knee. He began picking up tempo, and I missed more and more notes, but he didn’t stop. My face turned beet-red as I realized I was on the precipice of cumming. My hips involuntarily ground microscopic circles onto his leg as I humped myself to a shuddering climax. I stayed on his knee, catching my breath, too afraid to turn and see if he’d realized what had just happened. “That’s going to need a lot more work,” he said. I got up off his knee and sat back down in my chair. And my god, that’s when I noticed the dark patch of moisture I’d left on his slacks. My stomach turned and I glanced up at him. His eyes were fixed on mine, almost purposefully not acknowledging the wetness from my climax on his knee. My face felt hot and I fought back tears. I felt deep shame. I just wanted to die.
The next week he wanted to do this again, and although I was wearing jeans, I still turned to jelly and tried to fight humping against him. I hopped up in the middle and said I had to go to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet rubbed my little clit hard through several orgasms trying to get the sensation out of there. I made sure to wash my hands very carefully but I was paranoid I smelled like my sex. I wonder if he knew.
After this incident I just stopped practicing altogether. My mom noticed and I finally confessed to her that I didn’t want to play clarinet anymore. I didn’t go into detail, but I just said that Mr.S. was kind of weird and mean sometimes. She thankfully didn’t put up much of a fight and that was the end of that.
At least until I saw him several years later.
I was a senior in high school then, and long-departed from band. I was taking painting classes from a Continuing Ed program at my local community college, which I modeled for the other section of to get a discount. It was a long class, three hours, and I usually showed up slightly stoned or I used one of the longer breaks to hit a joint before going back in for a long pose. It was on one of these occasions that I decided to smoke inside somewhere to escape the cold, and let myself into a dark classroom somewhere down the hall. I sparked up and put in my headphones, so I noticed too late when the sliver of light from the door grew as it opened, and in walked Mr. S. Same pockmarked face, dark eyes.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said sternly.
“Mr. S?” I said. He didn’t register recognition until I prompted him with my name. “It’s me, ________. I used to take lessons with you.” His face broke with a smile. Of course he remembered me.
“Has it really been eight years? You’re a young woman now. What’re you doing here?”
I explained to him about the figure modeling and the art classes, and how I wanted to apply to art school. He nodded and listened, much cheerier than I remembered.
“Well I’m glad you found an outlet for your creativity. I was very disappointed when I heard you quit clarinet. I really thought you had a lot of potential.”
Even though he’d been intending it as a kind statement, something prickled in me. I didn’t need this man’s “disappointment” weighing me down, guilting me. I didn’t owe him anything. I couldn’t help myself, I took a shot at him.
“You had some pretty weird teaching methods, Mr. S. Remember when you used to make me sit on your lap?”
“I- I don’t think so,” he coughed. I relished watching him squirm. This gross man thought he could just get his weird kicks at a little girl’s expense?
“Sure you do, just like this,” I said, as I crossed over and sat down on his lap and bounced myself up and down. “It was kinda weird, man!”
“I don’t think this is appropriate,” he mumbled. I cackled.
“It was appropriate back then, though?” You sicko, I thought. I kicked my legs out to get up when I felt his rock-hard cock brush my thigh. I heard Mr. S. take in a huge breath. My stomach flip-flopped as I felt a wave of disgust wash over me and fade into sickening arousal. I didn’t say anything. I just grabbed him through his pants, caressing his hard cock lightly with my fingers. Mr. S. let out a deep sigh. My heart raced and my breath quickened, and I slowly started to grind against him. I felt for his zipper and undid it, and then he wrapped my cold fingers around the soft skin of his erection. “Nonononono” I could hear him whisper, but he didn’t stop me. His other hand snaked around and slid up my shirt, cupping my breasts and rolling my nipples between his fingers. I moaned. My pussy flooded with warmth and gooeyness. I could feel his face press itself between my shoulder blades as he breathed me in, surrendering. I gyrated and humped while I jacked his cock until the piercing sound of my cell phone alarm broke the trance and we shot apart. Break was over, I had to go back to class. He zipped himself back up, averting his gaze.
“This wasn’t a good idea,” he said, dusting himself off. I was still wildly, irrationally angry from the unwanted arousal he induced in me despite his scarred face and weaselly expression.
“Fuck off. I don’t ever want to see your face again.” I slammed the door as I ran out.
I don’t remember the rest of class very well. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. I felt my youth and beauty defiled by his touch. How could I ever explain this to any future lovers? I was supposed to be a sweet, innocent 18-year-old girl. I panicked as I imagined him calling my mom and telling her how dirty I was. I kept going into the hall to get drinks from the water fountain, but I couldn’t see inside his classroom. Finally class finished, and I rushed to pack up and get out of there. I walked past his classroom, but it was dark again and empty.
I trudged out to the parking lot, thoughts racing. I felt mortified confused and nervous about the fallout. I loaded up my car when I noticed a figure loading equipment into a van. It was Mr. S. I walked over.
“Can we talk? Inside? I’m cold.”
We sat in silence for a bit. He started to say something about me being young and naive, and so on, but I was only half-paying attention. I kept on having full-body intermittent flashes of the scene in the classroom. Of my small body engulfed by his fully-grown man body, of my smooth skin against his pitted and scarred skin. I took my shirt off. He stopped talking. “Touch me.”
And suddenly I was unzipping him again, and his thick dick sprung out of his pants. I leaned across the seat to take it in my mouth. “This is what you always wanted, isn’t it” I thought as I lapped and sucked and licked him. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a great blow job as my technique was more frantic than sensual. But he moaned and humped up his hips. Eventually we tumbled into the back of the van and peeled our clothes off. He pushed me down and licked at my pussy with the considerable skill of a much older man. He slid one thick, calloused finger inside of me and I marveled at its girth. So much bigger than mine. I spread my legs wide as he suckled at my clit and fucked me with his big middle finger, and even though I was watching I was thinking about being a little girl, cumming on this man’s knee. And what a slut I turned into, allowing this gnarled man to lay his hands on me. I grabbed his face and ground my degenerate pussy into it, cumming. When he came up for air, I licked off all my juices from his mouth. Our tongues flicked each other and intertwined with more abandon.
“Are you a virgin?” he asked. I shook my head no.
“I’m on the pill,” I replied, answering his second question.
He moved his weight over me, belly taut as a drum resting against mine. And without any hesitation, he fucked his cock all the way up into me, to the hilt. My eyes rolled back into my head. It hurt a bit because I was only semi-experienced back then. But soon the sweet sensations overpowered any pain. He plunged in and out of my young pussy, while my hands explored his salt and pepper chest hair. He was old enough to be my young dad. I’d never touched a man’s body before, just boys. Unlike boys he knew how to fuck slow, too. I was entranced by how much of his cock disappeared into me, then reappeared all wet and shiny.
He stopped abruptly and sat down on a box and patted his knee. “Come sit on me.” I gasped as I sank down onto his cock, as he bounced me up and down, getting properly fucked, like the dirty slut I was, that he knew me to be, since I was a little girl.
I still feel both horribly repulsed and insanely turned on by the thought of him fucking me. It only happened a couple of more times before it got really weird and we stopped. I was 18 and he wasn’t my teacher anymore so there was really nothing wrong with it (turns out he and his wife had been separated even back when I was a little girl) but it still felt really wrong and no way around it, any 37-year-old dude that’s fucking an 18-year-old girl… there’s something off. It also started to dawn on me that he had been grooming me and it really creeped me out eventually so I just ghosted on him. Never spoke to him again. One day one of the watercolors of me disappeared from the case in the hallway and I always imagined it was him that stole it.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/5uedy1/fm_the_story_of_my_clarinet_teacher
Naughty naughty