SUSAN SUENN

I am still climbing the stairs, and the feeling is already arising in the lower abdomen, I am shaking with fear and anticipation of the highest enjoyment.

The janitor brings a case with a cello in the studio and puts it by the window. I ask him to come back in an hour to carry the cello down. The studio is empty, more than empty: without it, it is not a studio - a desert. I cross it, my steps stand out loudly from the oak floorboards, sit by the window, wait.

Afternoon. Sunlight easily breaks through thin muslin curtains. Outside, the rustle of foliage can be heard: a breeze blows. I look at the houses on the opposite side of the street. Balconies with flowers planted on them: lilies, mimosa, roses. White plaster, illuminated by the sun, blind eyes.

The studio door opens, but I don’t turn around immediately, until the last moment I delay the moment when I look into your face. When I turn around, I see that there is especially nothing to look at. I know how others see you, but before my mind’s eye you are completely different. Brown hair, long, serious face, beautiful eyes, hiding behind glasses in a gold frame.

But driving me crazy your mouth, driving you crazy and dreaming at night. Wide, surprisingly beautiful mouth. A music teacher should not have such a mouth. The mouth gives you away. Do the rest not notice? I understood everything at first sight.

You smile and greet me - common, meaningless words. I go to another window, open the case. There is nothing unusual about it. If anyone is watching us, he cannot have a hint of suspicion. But I know what's what.

Today we are going to play together, the Puccini duet. I sit on the chair. One hand on the strings, the other holds the bow. You are sitting opposite, eagerly catching my every breath, but you restrain the desire to touch me. I see you through. And looking forward to what follows your views.

Three times you hit the strings with a bow. Echo resounded in my ears. We begin. Music fills the studio. What is in her great acoustics.

My breathing quickens, the corset becomes tight. I guess I tightened it more than usual. You like my slim waist. You're thinking about it now? Do you want to embrace it with your hands with such long, artistic fingers? Or were you fascinated by the upper semi-circles of my breasts, billowing over lace shirts?

We play, and I feel my body trembling.

I close my eyes and dissolve into the music. She is so alive, so sensual. We pause, exchange smiles, conspirators, and start playing again. This time Verdi. I am tense, I want my cello to play in unison with yours. But this is not the only cause of stress.

Now I have to play alone, and here begins what I have been waiting for.

I hesitate to look at you when you put the bow aside, you put the cello on the chair. I say nothing, words can spoil everything. Music draws you to me, and now you are standing behind me. You have not touched me yet, and I already feel you. A breath of air, maybe your breath, with a subtle smell of tobacco, cools my neck.

Finally, a touch, a finger glides over the skin, just below the hairline. I continue to play, I do not stray from the rhythm, I do not show that I noticed you. You touch me again, wind the blond curl on your finger.

“You play very well,” you whisper. I nod. I like your praise.

Another touch. This time your lips examine my neck, freeze at the vertebra, which bulges hard enough if I bow my head. When the vertebra touches your hot tongue, a shudder runs through my body.

Your hair smells of hay, it slips over my bare shoulder and I feel how silky they are. You utter a barely audible sigh when your lips kiss my shoulder. He is muffled by music, but I hear, I hear.

Your fingers are already on the buttons, unbuttoning them one by one. I hold my breath when you free me from a tight bodice. Today I gave preference to reddish velvet. I know you love this color. And it harmonizes so well with my milky skin and amber eyes.

Your whisper is thundered in my ears. Oh, you break the rules! During the lesson you only comment on my technique, correct me, but I forgive you. I know that the lesson today is special.

I continue to play, although your hand has already reached my chest. I'm trembling all over. The bow is creaking. It should be rubbed with rosin, but now it takes me more.

My father is waiting for me in the carriage standing at the house. I am his pride, his treasure. Bowing his head, he listens as I play. If the music falls silent, he will slowly climb the stairs to find out why we are wasting the money he paid.

Today I am bold and turn to you. I see that you are surprised. You think that I am an innocent child, that I do not understand anything, but I quickly learn - an exemplary student. You may not approve of this, but you will not disappoint me either. Our lips meet. What a gentle mouth you have ... a mouth that should not belong to a music teacher. You smell of brandy and cigars ... and something else, elusive. Probably the smell of a young man. You are a symphony. Is it too banal comparison? Of course, I did not come up with anything original. Let it go.

Your fingers slide under the shirt, covering my chest. Ah, this is the punishment for my lewdness. I gasp, my hand goes astray, the cello complains, but it does not hold a grudge against me.

My lips open and I enjoy the softness of your tongue. He is so gentle, I want to bite him, suck, but I suppress this desire when your second hand hugs my waist. I lean back against you, feeling your strength. My thighs involuntarily move apart, and your fingers caress and pinch my chest. Pleasure spreads over the skin, like a pleasant melody.

“You’ll be finished today,” he whispers.

I almost faint from shock. You never allowed yourself such liberties, and that took me by surprise. Hands on the waist are no more, the second is no longer on my chest. I feel lonely, but not for long. You come back, lifting my skirts and finding my hip under the cambric trousers. Now you simultaneously touch my skin in two places. It feels like my chest is filling a new meeting with your palm. And your second hand caresses my thigh, slowly moving up the silky skin, until it finds a small red-hot stove. I freeze, for a moment I am covered with fear. I should not allow this, but the future is inevitable. It became inevitable from the very moment you put the bow down, and I continued to play, as if nothing had happened.

“Oh,” I breathe out, when you start stroking me ... there.

Such a quiet sound, but it echoes in me and merges with the music. Would I love you if you didn't play the cello? Most likely no.

- Oh, - again the same sound, because your fingers describe the delightful circles, press and smooth, circle between the opened lips, caressing a small pipochka that burns, pulses.

Now I went to your kiss with my head and I play automatically, my hand moves by itself, memorized by movements. This automatism was instilled in me by my first teacher. Not you.

“Touch it, my little Clara,” you whisper, with a soft, European accent. I like the way you pronounce my name.

But how can I remove my hand from the strings ... to become completely dependent on you? You will feel all-powerful. And where does this lead? No, I can not stop. And I continue to play, and you stroke me, your long, beautiful musical fingers bring out only the melody they know on my most intimate little place.

It seems my whole being stands still waiting. Waiting for what? I am dissolved in the magic of this moment.The sun illuminates the oak wood with gold, I smell the smell of lavender polishing wax and rosin, the cello case standing by the window smells like heated skin, your breath scorches me.

I barely suppress a scream. What thrills make your fingers touch me. Now you enter me in two places, with your tongue and fingers. I can't move my lower body: the cello interferes. But I give you complete freedom of action. And you act. The enjoyment increases and increases.

The work that I play is close to completion. I must reach a peak before the last time I bow the strings. Will I succeed? You prepared me so well, and I don't want to let you down. Oh, my cheeks are burning with shame and excitement, I feel like you are licking the beads of sweat from my upper lip. You have such a hot, such demanding language.

Lord, I turned into a tight string. But I'm on the verge ... on the verge.

- Yes, KlaRa, my angel, come on, - you whisper in my ear.

And the orgasm shakes me, spreads all over my body. You kiss me on the lips to drown my moans, bury them in your throat.

And I give them to you, my musical lord. Because I can not give anything else.

Your fingers straighten my bodice, fasten it with all the buttons. Taking your place, you smile. Your eyes, behind the gleaming glasses, shine with pride. I turned out to be a diligent student. You take the bow, tap on the music stand. A tree on a tree, knocking this - an echo of my pulse. Join me in a duet.

We take the last chords together, and then silence reigns in the studio.

Down in the carriage, Dad nods in satisfaction. His money was well spent, I played the whole lesson, without wasting time talking. And I play better. He says that soon I will be able to study with a new teacher.

But for the time being I will come to this studio once a week.

I get up, straighten skirts, put my favorite cello in its case. The doorman stands in the doorway, waiting. Takes the case, and I follow him to the stairs.

“Well played, Clara,” comes the voice of a teacher. - You already know a lot.

I do not look back. Below, impatiently waiting for father.

Translated from English by Victor Weber SUSAN SWANN THE MUSIC LESSON