my hot piano tutor takes a strong hands-on approach [mF]

“Are you looking at my tits?” Heather asks.

I blush, because of course I am. I’m embarrassed to be caught. But also… I’m confused, I thought she’d be angry, disgusted to find out she’s sitting next to a pervert. And yet, she’s not.

Heather is my piano tutor, and in addition to being an excellent classical musician, she’s got this natural beauty. A beauty that she usually plays low-key, wearing minimal makeup and simple, concealing outfits. It took me a while to see past her plain presentation; I was slow to realize how attractive she really was. Don’t get me wrong, the beauty is there, but she’s professional, guides my playing, does her job, and that’s it. Not much chatting, not much small talk.

But today… she’s… more casual?

She’s sitting next to me on the piano bench, wearing a low-cut yellow summer dress. Her exposed shoulders distract me, bare but for a thin strap holding the dress up. Not helping is the swell of her cleavage filling the dress’s bust, erect nipples poking through. And, her thin waist, where the dress cinches tight, her tits overhanging, well… I’m having trouble keeping my eyes on the music.

I don’t know why, but she’s showing off for once. She’s fucking hot, and she’s sitting right next to me. Seeing more skin, more curves, my previous attraction to her is skyrocketing. I am intensely aware of her presence. Aware in a feral way. It’s not just my brain, thinking that she looks gorgeous. No, in my entire body, I can fucking sense the beauty radiating from her like it’s some metaphysical force. And she’s so close, our bodies are almost touching. Good god I’m distracted.

So, yeah, I’ve been stealing glances at her tits ever since my mom showed her in a few minutes ago. I want a piece of Heather real, real bad. But I’m just a dorky high school kid, I don’t know how to smooth talk anyone, let alone this sophisticated, beautiful college girl.

So when she asks me if I’m looking at her tits… no way am I brave enough to admit to that.

“N-n-no…” I stammer, unable to form any coherent answer, “I, was, uh…” Considering how long it takes me to respond, it’s embarrassing I can’t come up with something better to say.

“It’s ok,” Heather says with a friendly smile, cute freckled cheeks glimmering, “I’m not offended. I know it’s just natural.”

“I’m sorry–” I start. Where’s her usual cold professionalism? Why is she being so friendly? It’s just throwing me off more.

“No, I should be the one to apologize,” she says, turning to face to the piano, “I’m distracting you from your lesson. I brought a sweater, I’ll go slip that on while you practice.”

No! I’m not done being a pervert. “No, no,” I say, “That’s not necessary. It was my fault, you did nothing wrong, I’ll be better. I can stay focused.” To illustrate, I play some notes, then begin working my way through the rough parts of the piece Heather’s picked out for my recital. I know I’ve not been practicing enough, and it shows.

As I play a fumbling, awkward, insulting-to-the-composer rendition, Heather tucks her jet black hair behind her ears and things return to something like normal. She listens to me stumble, corrects my hands, demonstrates better methods, really works with me. My previous tutor was an amazing pianist, but Heather combines that mastery of the art with an intuitive ability to teach.

She pulls out her notebook. “This is, let’s see…” she says, “Just over three weeks until your school concert. How exciting!” She seems genuinely thrilled by this. She’s not just smart and hot, she’s happy and genuine, too. My heart melts.

She continues, oblivious to the status of my heart. Her speech is measured, “You’ve done just ok so far.” I detect a touch of disappointment in her words. She continues, “But I know you can do better. You’ll need to find your motivation. Starting now, you really need to be buckling down, putting in a few hours each night. Do you think you can do that?”

What she’s describing… that’s a huge amount of effort. All for just one piece. Reciting, performing… it sounds scary, intense. My self-doubt shows on my face.

“Do you think you could do it…” she says again, adding, “For me?” She smiles softly. It’s so endearing, so vulnerable, my heart melts all over again. What does she mean, ‘for her’?

It doesn’t matter. I nod seriously. I can do it. For her. For that smile. For those tits.

Then she grins at me, a teasing smirk. “Plus, if you flub your show, your mom will fire me, and I really need this job.”

“I’m sorry!” I say, almost whimpering. The thought of harming Heather in any way gives me anguish. She wants to be a pro musician, I refuse to be the source of her failing at her dreams.

“Don’t be sorry,” she says, kindly, “Just practice, remember what I’ve told you, and practice some more.”

“I’m trying,” I say.

Heather winks at me, her eyes sparkling as she grins. “But you’ll do it for me,” she says, “Right?” She parts her lips and I see her tongue slide through her mouth. My eyes go wide. Is she flirting? No way… but there’s something about her smile, the way she holds my eye contact. Oh fuck, I can feel my heart pounding.

She continues, “Maybe you’re not sure what that means.” She places her hand on my knee, tickles it, drags her fingertips up my leg.

I gasp. My fingers fumble across the keys. It sounds horrible. She flashes me a naughty smile.

Then it’s gone. “Again!” Heather says, “For me.”

For her, my head spinning, I play the piece. For her, for another chance to feel her hand on my knee, I play again and again and again. It starts sounding better. Or at least, it starts sounding not terrible.

From down the hall we hear my mother shout, “You’re getting it, hon!”

Heather grins at me, strokes my thigh. “See what you’re capable of, when you’re properly motivated?” she says. Then, “Again!”

I play again and again and again.

Through repetition, through concentration, I somehow manage to push Heather out of my mind, while at the same time thinking of nothing else. I focus on the keys, on my fingers, on the music, on the feeling of her hand near my crotch. I refine my timing, my flow, my energy. Heather says, “Do you think about me when you masturbate?”

I stumble, “Uh…” She’s grinning at me. Why is she doing this to me?

The grin’s gone. She shakes her head. “Again!”

I play the piece again. I get into the zone. I feel like I’m beginning to begin to get it. The piano, it’s almost like I can feel it, that we’re partners, working together, my mistake is our mistake, we correct it, my fingers and the keys moving as one.

Heather’s pulled the front of her dress down, exposed her pink nipples to me. They’re so much sexier than I even imagined. My fingers stumble. I am staring, jaw slack. “Oh fuck…” I whisper.

This is only the second time a girl has shown me her tits in real life, and the first time when it was just me and the girl alone. So I know I’m inexperienced, but I know these tits are objectively magnificent, the gold standard tits, the tits I will from now on compare all other tits against, and find wanting. I need to feel these tits in my hands…

“Again,” Heather says.

I play, but I’m so very distracted. The distraction is winning, taking over. I need to regain control. I close my eyes. I hate to, but I need to, if I’m going to play. I focus, barely. I play. I don’t need the music sheets anymore, I have the piece memorized. I can see it in my mind’s eye. I feel something warm and soft against my face, something slide into my mouth. Is that…? It must be… A nipple. Oh my fuck. I suck on it. Heather makes an amused noise. I can’t believe this is happening.

I somehow keep playing.

Her hand unzips my pants, slides into my underwear. Her fingers find my balls. I am in disbelief. Am I dreaming, or is sweet, beautiful Heather really fondling me? I open my eyes. Heather’s smiling at me, her grin naughty. I’m reeling. But I somehow keep playing, my fingers on autopilot, operating on their own.

“See what happens when you do it, for me?” Heather says. “And you know what they say about pianists?” she continues, “We’re good with our fingers.”

I whimper as her hand wraps around the shaft of my erect cock. She strokes it. I have never had a handjob before, and I never even dared to dream I would get one from Heather. But here she is, hand on my erection, jacking me off.

I play on. Her fingers run up the length of my dick, thumb teasing its underside. Her fingers are soft and delicate, dexterous and strong. Their command of my cock is incredible. I gasp, but I don’t slow.

“Play for me,” Heather says. I play. She squeezes my balls. I gasp again.

I’m reaching the end. Of the piece. And my ability to hold back. My fingers reach the crescendo. Her fingers grip me hard, pump my cock in time with my pace. My fingers play the last note. Her fingers make me cum.

Heather’s ready. My spunk sprays into her waiting hand. Her other hand is a fist, pumping me dry.

I slump over.

“I think you’ve got it,” Heather says, smiling at me, “Help me pull my dress back up.”

Lightheaded, I take one last gaze at her tits, then work the fabric of her sundress back over her nipples. Of course I fondle her a bit in doing so, make her tits bounce a little, feel their weight, make sure they’re snug. But I’m mostly a gentleman, and she’s smiling at me anyway.

Heather goes over to the restroom, I hear the water run. I’m still floating. For the first time, a girl just made me cum. I didn’t expect it to be this way. I didn’t expect it to be with Heather. I can’t believe it was with Heather. I begin playing the piece again. My fingers do it on their own, my mind is on Heather, her glorious tits, her freckled cheeks, her soft hands, her enchanting dimples.

Just in time, apparently. My mother chooses that exact moment to walk into the room. “That was really amazing,” she says. She looks down at me. “Wow, your sweating! You’re really feeling it!”

“Err, yeah,” I say.

Heather comes back into the room, smiling proudly. “Glad you agree! I think he’s really broken new ground. He’s really pumped today, now he’s just got to keep up those nightly practices, keep his fingers moving.”

Mom beams at Heather. “You’re such a find, Heather,” she says, “You seem to have really found a way of reaching him. What’s your technique?”

“Oh, you know,” Heather says, “It’s just a strong hands-on approach.”

I feel the blood rush to my cheeks.

“Well, whatever it is,” Mom says, “I’m glad he’s finally taking something seriously.”

“Oh, he’s been an excellent student,” says Heather, “I think by the time the concert comes around, if he keeps practicing, he’ll be ready to go all the way.”

Is she..? I look at her, wide-eyed. Heather grins back at me and winks.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/jo5kpa/my_hot_piano_tutor_takes_a_strong_handson