Saturday, March 6, 2010

An Impromptu Lesson, Chapter 2

It was a simple touch of the hand that started everything. A touch that I'd experienced literally hundreds of times over the years as a student, and now a teacher, of the piano. When the teacher guides by example, finger brushing against finger, hand placed on top of hand to feel the correct movement. Almost always, that touch was completely innocent, even routine. Not this time.

OK, sure, so there had been that brief, hot affair with my piano professor in college. But that was more a case of a curious co-ed responding, in the heat of the moment, to the attractive, confident older man who took brief leave of his senses to misuse his position of authority. It was never destined to last more than a few months, before I graduated and moved on. Three years had passed, and it was nothing but a distant memory.

This, on the other hand, was a full-blown obsession, an all-consuming passion. Although my schedule was filled with the work of a freelance musician - teaching, driving around town to various rehearsals and gigs, practicing when time allowed - I began to imagine my schedule as revolving around his visits. His weekly appointment. What had begun as a 30-minute lesson, for which he paid me the standard rate, had since expanded to an hour, and, well, the rest will be spelled out as this story progresses.

Back to that first touch. August 14, it was. He had started lessons in May, as the typical adult who hadn't touched the piano since childhood, but was finding his life empty in spite of professional success, and had therefore made the decision to return to it. I quickly learned that, in addition to being confident and attractive, he actually had a great deal of talent, and it wasn't long before he was making quick progress.

At first, though, I enjoyed his lessons on a purely professional level - enjoyed his quick progress, the way in which he would respond so well to the ideas I'd had over the week for how to introduce a new concept. During that fateful lesson in August, I was watching him play his assignment when I realized there was something fundamentally wrong about the way he was positioning his hands. I resorted to a method I'd used many times in the past - asking him to position his hands on top of mine as I played the music for him.

As I moved from my chair to join him on the bench, he scooted over to make just enough room for me. I positioned my hands over the keys, and he gently placed his hands on top of mine. As many times as I had done this before, I had never felt such instant electricity. I fought to concentrate, fought myself to remain professional, as I was sure what I was feeling existed entirely inside myself.

"Wow, Joanna, that was amazing."

"Thank you, Josh," I replied, turning to look into his eyes, assuming he meant my playing. But as our eyes met, and I could literally hear his heart pounding, as close as we were to one another, I realized he had felt the electricity as well. I still didn't dare to make the next move. Even though we were both consenting adults, I still felt obligated, as the one being paid in this scenario, to maintain my cool.

Before I could move away from him, our hips still touching, his hands still resting warmly on top of mine, he surprised me with a passionate kiss. I froze momentarily, before melting into him, and he responded by moving his hands from the keys to my face, stroking my cheeks as my lips parted and his tongue pressed into my mouth.

My heart was racing and I found myself breathless as he pulled away from me and once again looked into my eyes.

"I'm sorry, Joanna, I shouldn't have..."

"No, Josh, I'm glad you did. I've never felt such a powerful attraction to someone before, such a desire to make love right here on the piano, but I never would have acted on it if you hadn't made the first move."

I couldn't help but remember that first encounter with my professor in his studio - which at the time was the most amazing sexual experience of my life - and quickly realized that it paled in comparison to my excitement at this new scenario.

"I think this could work out well for both of us, Joanna."

"Oh really, what exactly do you have in mind?"

"Well, you've proven to be a wonderful teacher, and I've love to keep our weekly date for the piano lesson. But I propose this: if you can block out a bit more uninterrupted time, I know there are a few things I can teach you about desire and satisfaction. I can tell you've yet to tap into the depths of your sexuality."

His words turned me on like crazy - not simply because he was promising great pleasure, but because I always responded so powerfully to the confident older man. Didn't I mention? Josh was in his early 40s - to my 23.

"Hmm, I'd almost feel guilty charging you for lessons - sounds like we should call it a wash?"

"Works for me. Stand up."

I did as I was told, and he grabbed me by the hips, positioned me between his legs, facing him, and began moving his hands over my body, massaging me through my clothes. I let my head fall back and my weight fall against the piano, a few random notes played by my ass, then my thigh as he spread my legs further apart.

Luckily for me, I was wearing a sundress, summery as the weather was that August. It wasn't long before his hands had made their way up underneath it and he was stroking my clit and pussy lips through my wet panties. I lifted the fabric of my dress to give him better access, and he soon pushed my panties aside and began fingering me directly. I moaned in pleasure as I watched him work, his intense blue eyes meeting mine as he played with my clit with one hand while the other began plunging into my pussy, one finger at a time.

"Climb up there," he ordered, motioning with his head that I should sit up on the piano to give him better access. I paused for a moment, my years of piano training and respect for the instrument I cared for so gently getting in the way of my intense desire. But in the end, it shouldn't be much of a surprise which of the two won out. I moved his music book, put down the music rack, and hoisted myself up onto the piano, my feet plunking out a few low and high notes as I rested them on the keyboard, spreading my legs wide.

He remained seated on the bench, now perfectly positioned to begin licking my pussy. The sexy unshaven whiskers on his chiseled jaw tickled against the skin of my inner thigh as he approached slowly, before diving in, sucking agressively, pulling my pussy lips one by one into his mouth, nibbling gently, before finally plunging his tongue deep into me.

I put my hands on his strong broad shoulders to steady myself, and to pull him even closer, as I cried out in pleasure. It wasn't long before he had licked and sucked and penetrated me into a state of immense pleasure, but he seemed also to have the patience to draw out and prolong my pleasure as well.

After a few minutes of this delightful attention, I could no longer sit upright, and, releasing his shoulders from my grip, I let my weight fall back, back, back, until I was finally lying flat against the piano. I felt and heard him shift his position, but as he continued his attention on my pussy with his fingers, I didn't look to see what he was doing.

He had me once again on the verge of orgasm when he pulled his fingers away entirely, and I whimpered, looking up just in time to see him standing and plunging his cock deep into me. How he had managed to free himself from his slacks while still keeping perfect attention on my clit and pussy, I'll never know - but I wasn't about to ask questions. I screamed out in delight and sat up, wrapping my arms around his neck, as he filled me completely.

He remained buried inside of me for a few moments, rotating his hips to create incredible sensations, but it wasn't until he lifted me down from the piano and we found a new position that I could truly experience his deep movements inside of me. After my feet were firmly on the floor again, I lifted my sundress all the way up and over my head, tossing it to the floor, where his slacks and shirt promptly joined it. I also stepped out of my dripping panties, flinging them aside as he sat back down on the piano bench, his cock jutting upward from his body.

I needed no instruction this time, as I straddled the bench and lowered myself onto his long, hard length. I cried out as he filled me, before beginning a quick motion up and down on him, both of us groaning in pleasure at each stroke. I was sure that we would both cum in this position, but once again I underestimated his patience and stamina. Don't get me wrong, I came - a long, noisy, wet orgasm with Josh deep inside of me - but he kept right on going, his powerful cock simply enjoying the ride.

After I recovered from this climax, he lifted me up and repositioned us once again. This time, it was my elbows and forearms that rested on the piano as he positioned me in the crook of it and wrapped his body around mine from behind. Squeezing my breasts firmly as he pressed into me, he began fucking me at a furious pace, slapping my bare ass with every few strokes, squeezing and kneading my flesh as he gradually worked towards his own climax.

I nearly blacked out from the most intense sensations I'd ever experienced - orgasm after orgasm as he continued to pound away from behind - before he finally shot his load deep inside of me and came to a rest, his weight gently leaning against me and pressing my body onto the shiny surface of the piano.

We remained there for several minutes, panting, every desire quenched, before finally standing up and getting dressed again. I chuckled to myself as I realized I'd need to take a polishing cloth to the piano before my next student arrived - it was covered with handprints, and even more telling, the unmistakable imprint of my breasts as they'd rested against the lid.

"So, Joanna," he said as he sat back down at the piano bench, once again positioning his book on the music rack, "what's my assignment?"

I sat back down on my chair, and with the straightest face I could muster, replied, "well, I think we covered all of the important points before, um..."

"Before I gave you the greatest pleasure of your life?"

"Well, yes." I couldn't deny it, I was glowing. "But Josh, just remember, if you don't practice and prepare sufficiently, there'll be no sex for you next week."

"Now that's a good incentive. I promise, I'll practice."

"Sounds like a win-win arrangement we've worked out here."

"Sounds like it! See you next week..."

The Artist

The spring internships were about to be announced, and most of my classmates were buzzing about Jackson. Jackson this, Jackson that. If I believed everything I heard, he had single-handedly saved the avant-garde American art scene from its inevitable irrelevance.

Truth be told, there were several local artists and studios which took interns from our academy each spring, and I was excited about the opportunity to work with any of them. It just seemed that Jackson was the fascinating character who most captured the imaginations of my young peers.

"Did you read the New York Times' review of his MoMA show?"

"Did you know, every intern he's ever chosen has gone on to a successful career?"

"Did you hear, he has work in his loft that nobody has ever seen?"

"Haven't you ever seen him walk on water?"

OK, so I made that last one up, but it's not much of a stretch. Me, I wasn't getting caught up in all the fuss - I just felt lucky to be at the academy. I would be happy with any internship placement I got, because it would mean my first steps towards becoming a professional artist. It's all I'd ever wanted to do since leaving behind my small town life, my small-minded family.

The morning the internship announcements were to be posted, I calmly sat down on a bench at the end of the hallway outside the academy's main office, my coffee cup in hand and my art supplies resting at my side. The rest of the students gathered in a bunch outside the office, the guys trying to look cool and the girls nonchalant, as they watched out of the corner of their eyes for the director to emerge with the single sheet of paper which would reveal the next few months of their future.

After fifteen or so minutes of tense silence, the office door opened, the academy director emerged with the paper, weaved his way through the throng of eager students, pinned the paper to the bulletin board outside his office, and as quickly as he could, retreated again into the safety of his office, closing the door behind him.

I waited and watched as the other students dove in, pushing each other aside to get to the information, some of them crying out in excitement, and others just crying. I jotted down a few quick sketches in my notebook of the mob before finally getting up myself, walking towards the bulletin board as others walked away, and moving my eye over the page until I finally saw my name:

Tatiana: Jackson

Wow. Without any lobbying, without any political maneuvering on my part, Jackson had chosen me. In just a few days, I'd be meeting the notorious character, completing whatever tasks he saw fit to expand my potential as an artist, starting on my way towards my dream career. I could only smile as a few jealous students gave me dirty looks on my way out of the building. I'd worked hard, I'd put in my time, this was the reward.

******

I was just a little bit nervous as I knocked on his door at the appointed hour on the appointed day. I'd done enough research about his quirks to know that it was vital that I arrive on time, professionally dressed and ready both to show him samples of my previous work and answer any questions he might have about my background. Anything less would be disrespectful to someone of his standing in the art world: successful, but also mysterious and unpredictable.

I expected an assistant to open the door to his loft studio, but instead I was greeted by the man himself. Jackson was a handsome and athletic man in his mid-late forties, and was dressed in the uniform of a self-confident artist - clothes which were at one time expensive and tailored, but which were now untucked and splotched with oddly shaped stains in various colors of paint.

He took my outstretched hand in both of his, gripped it firmly, and with a smile but no words, motioned for me to have a seat on a sofa at the far end of the huge room, while he returned to his work of the moment. I sat down and watched as he added stripes of red to what was already a multi-layered and multi-colored canvas, an abstraction of incredible depth. I soaked in the whole environment, not just his artwork but also his slow, even movements, the eclectic mess of the large room, even the view out the windows of the top-floor loft.

He didn't speak a word for at least an hour, occasionally stopping his work to look towards me, but always seeming distracted, as if he couldn't begin to acknowledge me fully until he'd finished the artistic thought on the canvas. When he did look in my direction, it wasn't just my face he studied, but also my body, and that in a way that cut right through me, making me aware of every inch of my skin.

I had no way of knowing whether he was seeing me as a grouping of lines in motion, as any great artist might, or whether he was ogling me as a beautiful young woman. My mind wandered, wondering how many students had sat on this sofa before me, whether he'd looked at them in the same way, whether they'd felt as self-conscious as I did now.

I uncrossed my legs and sat up straight on the edge of the sofa. My petite 22-year-old frame was dressed in what I'd spent a few hours deciding was the ideal aspiring-artist-meeting-the-great-artist outfit: perfectly fitted jeans (classy but not afraid to get dirty) and a white blouse (professional but reminiscent of an artist's smock). I'd left my long brown hair down that day, so it cascaded down past my shoulders, framing my face, as I continued to study Jackson with my big hazel eyes.

After a few more moments, he looked towards me once again, this time finally speaking in a voice which surprised me with its combination of affected British accent and kindness, "Don't just sit there, make yourself at home, look around."

Chuckling to myself at his impatience with me - that he was somehow disappointed I hadn't made myself at home, snooping through the loft of a world-renowned artist, I nonetheless obeyed. I stood up and walked slowly around the room, stopping every few steps to admire some new discovery - from works of art which were familiar to me from my studies to a conglomeration of dirty dishes in the sink, remnants of days' worth of meals enjoyed by a man at once king of his genre but also unable to perform basic household tasks.

I looked back at him once again, and finding him still engrossed in his current project, walked further towards one end of the room, where my attention was drawn in by a section of wall covered with what looked like old-fashioned poloroid photographs. From a distance, the content of the photographs was mysterious. As I came closer, I could clearly see that they were photographs of naked women - primarily torsos, focusing on their breasts, but also the occasional face or curve of a hip or leg - each caught in the perfect light and adorned with a design in some sort of white paint.

In any other setting, the dozens of pinned-up photos would have struck me as pornographic, perhaps even disturbing in the sheer number of women depicted. But in this room, in the studio of this great artist, I was tremendously intrigued. Each picture was perfectly staged, perfectly lit, and I studied them each individally and as a collective, unable to quite ascertain a pattern or purpose, but fascinated nonetheless.

After some time, I became aware that Jackson was standing immediately behind me, observing me observing his works, and I started as I turned to find him nearly touching me.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Tatiana, I didn't mean to interrupt your observation. Do you have any questions for me?"

"Well, um, yes. I didn't know about this aspect of your work, I've never seen it before. I mean, um, but it's wonderful. Could you tell me more?"

"Certainly, darling. This is really a special project of mine, one I'm afraid the public isn't quite ready to understand, so I keep it just for myself. What would you like to ask?"

"Well, um, what is the meaning of the painting on each of their bodies? What is your inspiration?"

"The meaning is a difficult question to answer, of course. That you might have to discover on your own. But the work touches you, yes?"

"Oh yes, absolutely. It's very powerful. It's hard to explain, but I can't tear my eyes away from it. And the paint, how do you achieve that particular textured opaque white?"

"It's a technique of my own, I call it casein unfiltered medium."

I'd heard of casein, a paint base in which milk is the glue, creating an opaque watercolor texture. But I'd never heard the term he used. "Um, excuse me? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that?"

"Of course not, dear, it's not something they teach you at the academy. But I'll be happy to show you if you're interested. I usually refer to it by its acronym."

"Um, OK, so casein unfilterted medium would be c, u, m... um, CUM?"

"That's right."

It suddenly dawned on me that I'd just said 'cum' to one of the leaders of contemporary American art. My eyes darted back to the photographs on the wall, and it was suddenly clear to me. These were snapshots he'd taken of beautiful young women after covering them with cum. His own, I could only assume. I blushed hot and red.

"I see that you understand now. You see, it's quite frustrating to me, this genre of cum art being that which I consider my greatest achievement, yet one which the outside world simply views as pornographic."

"Oh," I said breathily, attempting to regain my composure, "but they're beautiful!"

"Thank you. You see, only at the point of orgasm do I feel truly free in my expression. Any other genre - paint on the canvas, clay in my hands, I feel the constraints of academia, of centuries of art history. It is only at this point of release that I feel I do my best work."

"Can I... um, help?"

"Ah, so you'd like to be one of my models?"

"Yes, it would be my pleasure."

"Ah no, it would be mine. You are a beautiful creature. Please, step over here, take off your clothes."

He guided me towards the light of the windows, and I quickly stripped down to my matching white lace bra and panties in front of the city view, my skin illuminated by the light from outside.

"Beautiful," he said, smiling, as he too took off his clothes, tossing aside his silk shirt and slacks, stepping out of his boxers, revealing to me his impressive cock, long and already erect.

"Let's help you out of these, shall we?" He stepped closer to me, pulling me into his embrace and unhooking my bra, tossing it aside, fondling my breasts for a moment before moving on to my panties, bending down as he pulled them down and quickly passing his hand over my clit and pussy lips before standing up straight again.

He was at least eight inches taller than me - six foot to my just-over-five-three, and with an athletic build to contrast my petite body. I quickly fantasized about the delightful challenge of taking his hard cock into either my mouth or my pussy, and could barely contain my excitement, a mood which I clearly projected.

"Calm down, my dear. We're going to take this nice and slow."

He hoisted me onto a nearby table, spread my legs with his strong arms, and began kissing first my toes, and then gradually moving up my left leg until he had finally reached my dripping pussy. Kneeling now, he focused his attention slowly and gently on my pulsing sex, combining fingers and tongue to pleasure me as I moaned and writhed beneath me.

After several glorious minutes of this attention, he abruptly stopped, and I looked up to see him walk a few feet to another table, where he picked up his camera and brought it back to where I lay before him, and began snapping pictures. With any other man, I may have felt self-conscious, worried about his motives in capturing images of me in such a vulnerable position, but with his man, Jackson, I simply felt beautiful, felt his saliva and my pussy juices glisten against my skin.

He set the camera down and motioned with his finger for me to move towards him. I climbed down from the table and knelt before him, taking his stunning cock into my hands, my long fingers wrapping around it and beginning to stroke up and down. I looked up at him with a naughty smile as I shifted my hands so that just one remained on his shaft, while the other cupped and fondled his balls.

After a few moments of enjoying this, he whispered down to me, "Take me into your mouth."

I didn't hesitate to do as I was told, and after a few moments of wetting his cock with my tongue, I began a slow motion up and down, taking his full length deep into my throat with each stroke. Once I had settled into a rhythm, he wrapped his fingers through my long brown hair, forming it into a tight ponytail, and began to guide me, moving me first to a faster tempo, then once again to a slower one, until I felt that he was moving closer to his climax.

Just as I thought the time was near, however, he stopped and pushed me away. I looked up at him with a hint of disappointment, but I quickly realized he simply wished to prolong his climax and enjoy another position. He helped me onto the table once again, where I again spread my legs wide for him, as he rubbed the head of his cock tantalizingly against my pussy lips.

I desperately wanted for him to enter me, but he seemed to enjoy this teasing, asking me to hold my own ankles as he reached forward to squeeze my breasts and pinch my nipples while he continued to rub back and forth against me. Finally, he too succumbed to the inevitable, pushing into me with one strong stroke, and then holding in that position, deep inside of me, as I adjusted to his size, panting and gasping for air.

Once I signaled with my eyes that I was ready, he began a steady in-and-out rhythm. I continued to pull my own legs back as far as possible, creating an intensely satisfying position, as he wetted his fingers in his mouth and began rubbing my clit. I wasn't able to hold back much longer, and after just a few more moments, watched him reach for the camera as I came, screaming out in pleasure as wave after wave of sensations rushed through my body.

After snapping a few quick photos of my moment of climax, Jackson slid out of me and knelt beneath me once again, lapping up the juices which still trickled from my pussy. After allowing me to recover, he helped me down from the table and again down to my knees, where I too had the opportunity to taste myself, with no option but to lick my own juices off of him as he clutched me by the hair and forced me down onto his cock.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Tatiana?"

"Oh, god, yes. That was the most amazing orgasm of my life!"

"I'm glad to hear it. Are you ready to help me reach my climax, to be part of this important artistic moment?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Alright, I want you to take me into your hands, stroke me, and tell me how dirty it makes you feel to be fucked by such a great artist."

I took his cock and balls into my hands, gently stroking as I carefully considered my words, being sure to play exactly the part that would get him off. I looked up at him with lustful eyes, and began to speak.

"I knew when I came here today that you were a great artist. I'd seen your oils, your watercolors. But now that I know you're also a cum artist, I want nothing more than to be your dirty little cum slut. I want you to climax just as hard as I did, and cover me with your brilliant cum."

"Yes, Tatiana, that's it, keep going."

I increased the tempo of my motions, fondling and tickling as balls as I firmly jacked him off. "I know you can't get enough of my beautiful breasts, that you're still remembering the sensations of fucking my tight little pussy, feeling my cum cover your cock. Now it's your turn, I want you to cover my sexy chest with your cum. Shoot it all over me, cover me! I want nothing more than to be your filthy cum whore!!"

"Yes, yes, I'm almost there, Tatiana, keep going!!"

I tried to speak once more, but before I could, Jackson once again clutched me by the hair and forced me onto his cock, bottoming out deep in my throat and holding himself there as I gagged and fought for air. He released me for a moment, and I quickly began a rapid up and down motion, before he pushed me away for good, and I let myself fall to the floor beneath him, a blank canvas for his latest work.

He held his cock in his hands, and I looked up into his eyes as he jerked with pleasure as his orgasm arrived, and stream after stream of cum shot from his cock, splattering first across my breasts, then on my face, then down towards my belly. I lay, still and content, knowing that I needed to wait for him to recover, reach for his camera, and capture the moment for his collection.

His hot cum oozed slowly across my skin, dripping from my cheek, sliding down from my nipple, coming to a rest in my belly button, as I looked up into the camera. Poloroid after poloroid dropped to the floor around me as he continued to click the shutter, before he finally stopped, setting the camera down and letting his own weight drop into a nearby chair.

My eyes wandered from the wood beams of the ceiling to the view out of the windows as I pondered my contentment. Not only had I experienced the best sex of my life, I'd also been witness to the purity possible in art - expression in its most basic form. Not acceptible to the gallery-going establishment, perhaps, but a wonderful inspiration, nonetheless.