My fingers trembled as I straightened them out to resolve the final cadence. “That was a D flat,” chimed the voice behind me. My arms jolted, immediately trying to replay the ending once again, only to be stopped by the voice yet again – “Don’t practise to solidify your mistakes.” A deep breath in. A slow and steady breath out. I raised my hand one more time. “Why did you choose this piece?”
I turned around on the stool to face my teacher, yet my gaze was planted firmly on his feet. My chest started throbbing, and my mouth went dry. “Your interpretation was devoid of any sense of longing,” he added, “it is supposed to be a love dream.” His beige trousers folded perfectly over his brightly polished leather shoes. “You should play what you feel, but it is meaningless if you force an emotion onto yourself.” I could feel his gaze boring through my face. I crossed my legs, trying to avoid exposing how vulnerable I felt. A deep sigh resounded the room, followed by him bracing his feet to get up. I sneaked a quick glance up at him as he was distracted. He was thin and tall, with his dark tousled hair covering most of his forehead. His white polo shirt hung loose from his slender arms, which gripped his knees purposefully as he pushed himself up, with a serious, neutral look worn on his lean face. I hastily turned my eyes back down on his feet, which were now walking swiftly towards me.
“Tell me this,” he questioned as he effortlessly placed himself on my stool, “how does listening to this piece make you feel?” Now that I couldn’t look at his feet anymore, I moved my eyes towards his forearms. They were toned and veiny, but completely smooth otherwise. Further down, his long, graceful fingers sat patiently on his lap. “Would you like me to play it for you?” I slowly nodded my head, unable to say anything. His hands moved towards the instrument, his fingers testing the ivory keys. He poised his left wrist up, and let it smoothly roll down on the first note. His fingers were a cascade of elegant motions, its handiwork gradually enchanting the bleak room. Each passing note chipped away at my guarded demeanour, and the lilting rhythm embodied a sense of yearning. I used this opportunity to look at his face once again, carefully observing how his beautifully angled eyes were loosely shut, his entire mind completely encapsulated in his art. He opened his eyes, leaned into the keyboard, and purposefully sped his nimble fingers across the keyboards. A kind, understanding expression had crept across his face. It fitted him.
The song’s progression pulled me further and further in, further into a state of unbridled desire and desperation. The epiphany slowly dawned upon me – I now understood what he meant. The throbbing in my chest only increased, except this time it wasn’t of embarrassment, but of craving. My ravenous heart beat faster and faster, flushing my breasts with emotion. His performance continued on, each line more beautiful than the last. A single tear slowly produced itself in the corner of my eye, and proceeded to roll down my cheek. I didn’t bother wiping it off.
As he slowly reached the end, his pauses became more frequent, his rubato more dramatic. I blushed with each emphasis. He leaned in yet again, letting his fingers gently wander across the final notes. He laid his weightless hands on the final chords, and his entire body heaved with drastic breaths. As the strings gradually ceased humming, he took his hands off the piano, completely exhausted. He turned to look at me, his now warm eyes peering sympathetically into my eyes. “Now you know,” he cooed, “now you know what it feels like.” He reached his hand out, softly grasping my chin with his index finger. It slowly moved up my jaw, his thumb moving up and beneath my glasses to wipe the tear off my face.
It was the first time we properly looked at each other. I had started taking piano lessons from him not more than a month ago, and I had never bothered paying much attention to him. Yet, now, as I look into his inky eyes for the first time, all I can feel is the irresistible urge to give myself to him.
“Sorry,” he said, retracting his cold fingers from my face. “I shouldn’t have done that.” I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sadness as he did so. There we sat, alone, together, in the warm room in the middle of the winter, looking into each other’s eyes. The wind howled outside, whirling the virgin snow into a flurry of passion. The slightest tinge of indigo in his soft eyes only enraged the angry storm of pining in my mind.
I’ve barely ever spoken to him, or anyone else for that matter, but I muster up all the courage in myself and timidly grab his wrist. “I want you to touch me,” I manage to mumble. He takes a look at my hand, and then cautiously weaves his fingers in between mine. He looks back into my eyes, and we stare into each other with intensified desire. Each passing second only managed to fuel my frustration, as each slight undulation of his hands only managed to erase my sanity. As he began stroking my fingers, it only became increasingly evident that we both wanted each other.
He slowly starts wrapping his left hand around my neck. I could already feel him drawing my face closer to his. I could almost feel his lips on mine, and I closed my eyes in anticipation. The kiss never came, however. My starving mouth lay slightly agape, until I got impatient enough to reopen my eyes. I startled as I realised his perfectly sculpted face only a hair’s breadth away from my face.
“I want you to witness our kiss,” he smirked. I opened my eyes, and his parted lips finally met mine. His tongue slid itself into my mouth, its moist softness beckoning my own. He gently played with my mouth, occasionally sucking our bonds tight and rubbing against my inner cheeks. After a few seconds of ecstasy, he carefully extracted his mouth from mine, only to put it back inside with renewed vigour after swiftly lifting me up and placing me on his lap. He gave every part of my mouth conscious attention, and I could feel my jaw slackening to his passionate licking.
It wasn’t long before my watering mouth started to drool onto my chin. He pulled back, and proceeded to lap up my saliva in a few elegant strokes. Grinning, he pulled me down so that I was leaning into him, rump sticking up, and let his hands gently inch up my skirt from my buttocks up. He sensually grazed his tongue across my lips, then ran it across my jaw, down my neck, and onto my now exposed collarbones–all while caressing my crotch through my underwear. I couldn’t help but softly moan.
“Can I put my hand inside?” he asked. I’d never been touched by a man, ever. Never kissed one, never hugged one, never held hands with one. Yet here I was, about to get fingered by someone whose name I didn’t even remember. God, I felt like such a slut. But I didn’t care. I guided his hand with mine, and led his fingers under my panties. I kept my hand around his wrist, and he began feeling his way over my crotch. His gentle nuzzling about my vulva sent tingles up my spine. “This won’t do,” he whispered into my neck. He focused his fingers back towards my knickers, and leisurely peeled them off. The fabric kept stopping against my dry skin, but his steady hand managed to get them off smoothly. Panties still in hand, he grabbed my butt with both hands and hoisted me up in one swift motion. “My, you’re dripping,” he remarked as he carried me over to his couch. As he laid himself down, I reached for my underwear, but he pulled his hand away.
“You won’t be needing these,” he teased as he tossed the soiled garment aside. He flipped me around on his lap and set his fingers on my bare vulva, and started to gently apply pressure and stroke my clitoris. My fingers curled around his wrist as the new sensation gripped me. His other hand made its way into my hoodie, and voraciously wound itself up my torso. “No bra?” he ribbed, a playful hint in his voice. I could feel my face burning from the embarrassment. “I like smaller tits anyway,” he rasped, now playing with my breasts and slowly rubbing my clitoris. Each gyration of his fingers pushed me slowly towards my climax, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I orgasmed. I nervously began to grind myself on his fingers, my thighs trembling with each turn of my hips. It couldn’t have been more than ten strokes before I came on his fingers. My back curled up, my eyes rolled back involuntarily, and he clamped down on my left nipple. The sensation filled itself over every extremity of my body, and I could do nothing but feel overwhelmed. As the feeling subsided, I began frantically gasping for air, struggling against his arms. His tender embrace was the only thing that could calm my nerves, and I eventually subsided on his chest.
“The lesson is over,” he declared unexpectedly. “You should go.” He got up and headed towards the piano, leaving me panting on his sofa. It had the same lemony musk that drove me insane not more than twenty minutes ago. He bundled my sheets together, and slid them neatly in my bag. The snowfall outside had diminished, and I could see individual snowflakes sinking leisurely towards the ground, fraying about giddily as they did so. I couldn’t help but giggle softly to myself. “Thank you,” I muttered. He positioned his face right in front of mine, softly smiling. Tilting his head forward, he pecked my upper lips with his own. “The pleasure was all mine. You should work on your fingering though,” he responded with a playful wink, “and maybe I’ll teach you more next week.”
He lifted me up from his couch, carefully slid my coat over me, and slung my bag across my shoulder. Taking my hand, he led me outside into the cold, and began walking me towards the bus stop. It wasn’t halfway until the stand that I felt something trickling down my thighs, and that my lips were rubbing together suspiciously. My face flushed with embarrassment, and I tightened my grip around his wrist. He turned to me, softly patted my head with his free hand, and gave me an innocent grin. “It’s too late, the bus is already here,” he taunted knowingly.
I could do nothing but board the bus, and as I sat down I felt the coarse fabric of my skirt press against my bare labia. He looked at me dotingly through the window, and waved as the bus started moving out of the station. I looked down, humiliated, but meekly waved back with a grimace. The corners of my scowl managed to twitch themselves into a half-smile at the sight of his unchanged mirth, and a wave of contentedness washed over me.
I couldn’t wait for next week.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/z9xhzv/piano_lessons_part_1
as a piano student I really enjoyed this!!!