When my wife, Starla, began taking piano lessons, I didn’t give it a second thought. A music teacher for many years, she’s always expanding her instrumental and stylistic repertoire. So when she mentioned piano and music theory lessons from a friend, I didn’t blink an eye, especially since the lessons would be via FaceTime.
Starla, also in her mid-forties, is active, with a small frame and supple mocha skin that allows her to glide through social circles as an insightful, sexy woman a decade younger. Married for almost two decades, Starla and I have settled into the familiarity of a gloved hand or worn brogans. I think I know her nuances and quirks and she’s certainly familiar with my lecherous crevices. My point, over time and through hard-fought experiences, Starla and I have cultivated an intimacy of routine. Certainly that neglect and my smugness led to the rot in our root cellar.
On the day of Starla’s first piano lesson, the family was in separate corners of the house, riding out the COVID-19 apocalypse. I sat in the TV room completing work on my laptop while Starla sat near the living room piano, waiting to call her tutor.
As soon as the lesson began, I knew something was different. Starla’s voice was different…she was happy or excited. The voice I was accustomed to, the voice of grocery lists and carpooling had been replaced with a nubile lilt. Within an instant, my Starla’s voice was the tinkling of tiny bells or the sun flash dancing over water; this was the voice from a cavern in my head, this FaceTime voice wore the perfume of our first date.
After enduring five excruciating minutes, I left my computer work for the bathroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of her tutor. Passing nonchalantly, I glimpsed enough forehead and crown to immediately know. His dreads were the give-away but his voice was also familiar. I had met the piano tutor, Derek, on several occasions. He was the kindest man imaginable, impossible to hate, and he towered almost 8″ above me.
I seethed in the bathroom, resenting the lilting voice used with another man. I fumed at prior coincidental sightings at local concerts or late-night texts about future gigs. Moreover I raged over the brazen call happening now in my home. Yanking wide the bathroom door, ready to howl and pound my chest, I exploded out of the bathroom before clarity’s icy hand twisted my guts and forced my to steady myself against the wall. I understood, in that moment, that I was angry that my beautiful partner was happy; specifically, that I wasn’t the source of her zest. How could I resent or fume at my her effervescent joy?
Returning to the couch, I heard Starla attempt a chord change, giggle that it worked, and the tutor praising her efforts. Every question she asked was a morsel of chocolate, concealing an affection-starved truffle wrapped in the impish, silver cellophane of her voice. Listening to the joy of their exchange became a intoxicating flame.
Suddenly, I imagined myself a mosquito, lighting softly on Starla’s exposed thigh and riding her pulsing artery, a miasma of heat and pheromones enveloping me while she plinked the keys. With bated breath, I listened through the tentative key strikes, not for harmonics but for the passion and emotion guiding each finger’s attack. If questions were her chocolate flirtations, these uncertain chords were the desirous hands of repressed lust. While Starla’s hands noodled the ivories ten feet from me, her emotional hands, were fumbling with her tutor’s shirt buttons, stroking his nape, and teasing his belt and zipper.
Starla continued to practice after the video call ended and I moved into the living room to watch. From my molasses leather chair, I observed her still erect nipples pressing into her shirt and a glow had settled on her brow and upper lip. Silently, I rose and stood behind Starla to observe her fingers work and her still heaving chest. Bending slightly, I reached under her outstretched arms, pointing at the keyboard and asking which chord progressions she was practicing.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m just playing around,” Starla replied.
Feigning disappointment, I began to stand and retract my arm when I brushed her insistent right nipple. Starla shuddered as I stood straight. She moved to leave, “Oh don’t stop,” I pled, “I’m enjoying your practicing. I promise no more questions.”
After a wary once over, Starla sat again and began to play. Still behind her, I saw her neck and ears were flushed and her nipples were at full attention. The moment fraught, I slowly leaned forward and reached under her arms. The fingers of both hands hovered for a millisecond over each nipple and Starla’s fingers continued to play. As my fingers descended, they traced over and around each nipple and I whispered, “Do you wish your tutor was doing this?”
Her fingers stopped playing but remained on the piano keys. Continuing their circumnavigation, my fingers stayed active as I flicked Starla’s earlobe with my tongue and again whispered, “Do you wish he were here creating this excitement, giving this attention?” I felt her lean back into my shoulder, slowly nodding her head.
Starla’s right hand left the keyboard and guided my right hand south. While we fumbled with her belt, I slowly licked from her neck to her ear again. “I think you would love for your piano tutor to kneel in front of you at the piano bench.”
Right hand finally over Starla’s waistband, I found her warmth and repeated, “Do you want your tutor between your thighs?” Only a small nod and I slid my soaked hand from her jeans. The fingers of my right hand moisturized Starla’s bottom lip before ending in my mouth.
“That’s all until you ask.” I moved to the front of Starla and kneeled. “Ask, no…tell your tutor what you want. Say it out loud,” I lay my hands on each leg, slowly spreading her thighs before closing them again, staring into Starla’s eyes each time I begin to open and close her legs.
Starla smiled, broke eye contact and whispered, “Tutor, I want you to lick it.”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/fwyvka/mfthe_piano_tutor