The Married Teacher Who Touched Me in Class

The woman who taught me piano lived right across from my house, in an old apartment with a French balcony, tall shutters, and a strange silence you could feel as soon as you crossed the door. She gave lessons in the afternoon in a spacious room that smelled of polished wood, old sheet music, and gentle perfume. I started going after failing an important exam, more because of my mother’s insistence than out of any calling. I didn’t know then that I was going to leave that place with an obsession lodged in my body.

Her name was Verónica. She was a married woman in her thirties, always immaculate, always composed, with the kind of calm smile that didn’t seem to hide anything and, for that very reason, hid far too much. Her husband picked her up every night, a dull, proper man in a wrinkled suit with an office-worker’s face, who waited in the car watching the clock. I saw him from the window and wondered how someone like that could go home to a woman like her.

Verónica wore fine blouses, almost always light-colored, that, when she leaned over, outlined the upper curve of her tits and revealed the lace of her bra. It wasn’t much of a cleavage, but it was more than enough for me. She also wore straight-legged pants that marked her ass with obscene clarity, as if every step had been made to make someone look. I watched her all the time, with the clumsiness and hunger of someone who still didn’t know how to hide it.

The music room was arranged as if it didn’t belong to the same world as the street. Beside the door stood a shiny black grand piano, with a round bench that creaked faintly when you sat down. In front of the window was a dark desk covered with notebooks, and against the wall, a mustard-colored sofa that I barely registered because all my attention always ended up on her. A seascape hung on one of the walls, a white sail in the middle of the water, as if that place needed a little more calm.

The first lessons were exactly what they were supposed to be: scales, posture, slow reading, patient corrections. But the distance between our bodies was too short. On the bench we sat almost pressed together, and when she stretched out her arm to show me a note, the side of her breast brushed my shoulder. I tensed all over and tried not to let it show.

Sometimes she stood behind me to correct my fingers. Her hands covered mine on the keyboard, guiding me with a delicacy that left me worse off than any direct groping. Other times she brushed my forearm, the nape of my neck, or my back with a naturalness that drove me crazy. I left her apartment with my fly straining, and at night I masturbated thinking about the smell of her perfume mixed with the warmth of her body close to mine.

For weeks I lived like that, feeding on little brushes and looks that perhaps meant nothing. Or perhaps they did. There were moments when I caught her watching me longer than she should while I practiced a simple piece, and then she would lower her eyes with a professional seriousness that arrived a second too late. That second was enough for me to imagine everything.

I was already a young adult, although I still carried a beginner’s insecurity in almost everything. I had more desire than experience, and that mixture showed in my voice, in my hands, in the way I avoided holding her gaze for too long. Verónica must have noticed. Women like that notice everything.

The afternoon it happened was one of those sticky-hot afternoons when clothes get in the way and your skin always seems damp. I arrived sweating, wearing a light T-shirt and sweatpants. She opened the door in a cream-colored blouse that clung lightly to her shoulders and her hair tied up casually, as if summer had loosened something in her. She smiled as she let me in, and there was already a strange calm in that gesture that I wouldn’t know how to read until much later.

We sat at the piano and I began repeating a scale I had been getting wrong for days. The air was thick. I could hear a fan turning in another room and the hum of the street far away. Verónica corrected a couple of notes, then remained standing behind me.

—Breathe —she said near my ear—. You’re tensing your shoulders, and you won’t get it right that way.

I laughed awkwardly and tried to loosen up. She placed one hand high on my back and began sliding it slowly, as if she wanted to accompany the rhythm of the scale. At first it was an ordinary caress, almost instructional. Then I noticed it growing heavier, slower, less innocent. Her palm descended to the base of my back and stayed there half a second longer than necessary.

I missed the sequence again. She didn’t remove her hand.

—Relax —she whispered—. Don’t rush.

I felt her fingers follow the outline of my waist over my T-shirt. Then they slipped underneath, just barely, brushing my hot skin. My breath caught. I kept my eyes fixed on the sheet music, but I couldn’t see a single note anymore.

Verónica pressed her body closer. Her minty breath touched my cheek. The hand beneath my shirt moved slowly across my stomach, firm and sure, as if she had made a decision long ago and was only now carrying it out. When her fingers reached the edge of my pants, I went completely still.

—Don’t do anything —she murmured—. Just stay still.

She slipped her fingers inside the waistband and brushed my hair with her fingertip. I was so nervous that I had shriveled up, and embarrassment suddenly rose into my chest. I wanted to say something, pull away, even apologize for I didn’t know what, but she stopped any attempt by placing her other hand on my shoulder.

—I know —she said, almost amused—. Wait.

Her hand found my cock and held it with practical gentleness, without theatrics or hesitation. She caressed the head with her curved fingers, moving up and down just over the skin. The contact was so precise that a jolt shot straight between my legs. I closed my mouth so I wouldn’t moan. She continued slowly, working only the tip, as if she knew that was enough to wake up every part of me.

Within seconds I began hardening in her hand. She noticed immediately. She pulled my pants down a little farther and drew my cock out over the waistband, holding it from the base. I felt it large, tense, throbbing against her damp palm. Verónica loosened her grip for a moment, looked down over my shoulder, and let out a small breath through her nose.

—That’s better —she said.

Then she began jerking me off for real.

Her hand moved up and down with a short rhythm at first, squeezing just enough, using the sweat on my own skin to make it slide. Every time she reached the head, she turned her wrist slightly, and the movement shook me all over on the bench. My hands hovered uselessly over the keys, and my back was rigid between her tits and her stomach, which sometimes brushed against me from behind when she leaned closer.

—Keep going with your right hand —she suddenly ordered, as if nothing were happening—. The scale.

I obeyed on reflex and played two horrible, wrong notes while she masturbated me with obscene calm. Her hand sped up a little. The skin of my cock slid up and down, increasingly sensitive, increasingly swollen. I felt the warmth of her body at the nape of my neck and the pressure of her fingers wrapped around my shaft.

—Very good —she said ironically when she heard another mistake—. You’re completely distracted.

A muffled moan escaped me. She heard it and didn’t stop. On the contrary, she squeezed harder. Her thumb worked the crown of my glans in brief circles while her other fingers pumped me with a faster rhythm. The wet sound of her hand on my cock began mixing with the clumsy tapping of my fingers on the keys.

I was on the verge of losing my mind. My breathing was broken, my legs had spread without my noticing, and my abdomen was hard as stone. Verónica stopped pretending to be a teacher. She lowered her head until her mouth was almost against my ear.

—Tell me if you want me to stop.

She said it, but in a way that made asking impossible. I shook my head, unable to speak. She smiled against my skin.

—That’s what I thought.

She reached her free hand around the front, pulled my pants down farther, and left my cock completely exposed. Then she gripped it better, wrapping her entire palm around it, and began jerking me faster, with long strokes this time, from base to tip, without any restraint now. My hips moved on their own, seeking her hand. She held me still with a squeeze on my shoulder.

—Stay still —she told me firmly—. You come when I say you do.

The words went through me like electricity. I gave myself over completely. She controlled the rhythm as she pleased, alternating slow strokes that drove me crazy with fast series that brought me to the edge. Every so often she pulled my foreskin down and massaged my exposed glans, sensitive, hard, burning. I panted like an idiot, unable to play another note.

Then she did something that finally broke me. She brought the hand that had been holding my shoulder to her mouth, moistened two fingers, and lowered them back to my cock. With that saliva she lubricated my glans and the upper part of my shaft, and the change was immediate: her hand began sliding much better, faster, dirtier. The wet sound became obvious in the silent room.

—Look at you —she murmured.

I lowered my eyes. My cock rose red and hard between her fingers, shiny with the mixture of saliva and sweat, trembling every time she closed her hand around it. Verónica squeezed a little harder and tore an open moan from me. I felt shame and desire at the same time, a mixture so intense it clouded my vision.

—That’s it —she said—. Don’t hold back.

Verónica’s hand became an exact machine. It moved up and down without pause, at a rhythm that didn’t let me recover. Every pump tightened my stomach further. My thighs hurt from squeezing them together. I already knew I was going to come, that there was no way to stop it, and that certainty made me even more sensitive.

—I’m going to come —I managed to say faintly.

—I know.

But she didn’t slow down. On the contrary, she curved her fingers around the head of my cock, trapping it halfway beneath a sort of hood of flesh and pressure, and worked exactly there with shorter, faster movements. My breathing became a broken pant. The orgasm rose from my balls to my throat in a single wave.

—Come on —she whispered—. Come in my hand.

And I came.

The first jet leapt hard against her closed palm. She held it there without pulling away, keeping hold of my glans while my hot semen gathered between her fingers and ran down my shaft. I moaned with my eyes closed, shaken all over, as another jet and then another emptied me into her hand. Verónica kept jerking me throughout the entire orgasm, milking me with a cruel slowness that made every spasm ache with pleasure.

She didn’t let go until the last drop ran over the tip. Then she gripped my cock at the base, gave it two more slow strokes to draw out what remained, and only then loosened her hand. I was trembling, my pants around my thighs, my chest rising and falling as if I had been running. She lifted her hand and looked at the shiny mess on her fingers with insulting serenity.

Then she produced a small cloth from somewhere and calmly began cleaning herself. She dried her palm, her fingers, the edge of her wrist, without stopping her profile from facing me. She wore the same immaculate expression as always, as if she had just corrected my posture rather than made me come in streams over the piano bench.

—Go to the bathroom —she said at last—. We still have a few minutes of class left.

I stared at her like an idiot. She held my gaze and raised one eyebrow slightly, inviting me to obey. I rearranged myself as best I could, felt the sticky fabric, and went to the bathroom on weak legs. It took me several minutes to wash, to breathe, to understand what had just happened. When I returned, Verónica was sitting beside the piano, leafing through a piece of sheet music.

—Shall we continue? —she asked.

And we continued. I played terribly. She corrected every mistake with implacable patience, as if the hand marking the beat hadn’t been wrapped around my cock a short while earlier. That normality was perhaps the most perverse thing of all.

***

During the following weeks she didn’t mention that afternoon once. Not once. She greeted me with the same smile, offered me a seat, opened the notebook, and began the lesson. If I had been less clumsy, I might have thought I’d imagined it. But one look from her that lasted too long or one apparently casual brush was enough to make me hard again and know that I hadn’t.

The real change was in me. I no longer went only to learn piano. I went expecting her to touch me again. I went with my body prepared, my cock waiting for her voice, her hands, for the possibility that she might close the door with a slower turn of the key. That anticipation consumed me.

One afternoon, near the end of the lesson, she was the one who broke the silence. She remained standing beside the window while I put away the sheet music and said, without looking at me:

—You don’t have to come if it hurts you.

The sentence hit me like a blow. I looked up. She was still watching the street.

—It doesn’t hurt me —I answered.

—Then tell me what you want.

At that point I could no longer pretend. I had wanted her before she touched me, but now desire had memory, scent, pressure, the exact rhythm of an experienced hand around my cock. I swallowed.

—I want you to do it again.

Verónica finally turned toward me. Her expression wasn’t tender or shocked. It was the expression of an adult woman deciding whether or not to cross a line she had already stepped over.

—Lock the door —she said.

I did it immediately. When I turned around, she was already removing her earrings and placing them on the desk. Her hands weren’t trembling. She approached slowly, undid the button of my pants, and pulled them down along with my underwear to mid-thigh. My cock sprang out hard almost at once, as if it had been waiting for that order for days.

Verónica looked at it up close and stroked it once, from bottom to top.

—Much better than the first time —she murmured.

I reached for her waist, but she brushed me away with a slight gesture.

—Not yet.

She made me sit on the edge of the ocher sofa. Then she knelt between my legs with a calm that undid me more than any haste could have. Seeing that elegant woman on her knees for me made my cock even harder. She held it in one hand, looked up, and asked:

—Do you want my mouth?

—Yes.

She didn’t wait. She stuck out her tongue and slowly licked the tip, gathering the moisture that had already accumulated there. Then she opened her lips and took the glans into her mouth, sucking it gently, only a few inches, as if tasting me. I let out a moan and gripped the back of the sofa so I wouldn’t touch her. Verónica watched me while she sucked, aware of the effect she was having.

Her tongue worked beneath the head of my cock with obscene precision. She circled the frenulum, went up, went down, returned to the tip, and sucked me again, pressing with her lips. Every time she took a little more of me, I felt her hot mouth enveloping me and emptying my mind. She combined it with her hand at the base, jerking me at the same time, doubling the pleasure until it was almost unbearable.

—Don’t come yet —she said, pulling away for a second, saliva shining at the corner of her mouth—. I want to enjoy you.

She took me into her mouth again, deeper this time. I could see the movement of her throat, the patient work of her jaw, and I could hardly believe that the same woman would later correct scales as if nothing had happened. The sensation was brutal: wet, hot, tight. She sucked me with contained hunger, without anxiety, knowing exactly how to bring me to the edge and leave me there.

When she sensed I was too close, she released my cock with a wet sound and stood up. Her lips were reddened. She opened her blouse slightly, just enough to pull one breast out over her bra. It was a firm, full tit, its nipple hard from the heat or the excitement. She guided my hand there.

—Now —she said.

I squeezed it clumsily, and she closed her eyes for a second. That small gesture emboldened me. I pulled the bra down on the other side, freed both tits, and began kissing them, sucking first one nipple and then the other, while my hands felt over her waist and ass through her pants. Verónica moaned for the first time in earnest. She was no longer the self-assured teacher; she was an aroused woman with her tits exposed, gripping my shoulders so she wouldn’t lose her balance.

I reached behind her and grabbed her ass hard. She let out a short moan.

—That’s it —she told me—. Don’t be afraid.

I undid her pants and pulled them down along with her panties to her thighs. Seeing her like that, half-dressed, blouse open, her pussy already wet, made me lose what little composure I had left. I parted her lips with my fingers and found her hot, slippery cunt, completely soaked. When I pushed one finger inside her, she rested her forehead against mine and exhaled through her teeth.

—Fuck... yes.

I moved my finger inside her, slowly at first, then inserted a second. Her cunt swallowed them easily, wet and hungry, squeezing them. Verónica spread her legs wider and began moving her hips against my hand. The sight of that mature, married woman asking me for more with her body made me feral.

—Fuck me —she finally asked, looking straight at me—. Once and for all.

I stood, pulled my pants all the way down, and turned her slightly to lean her against the desk. She swept some sheet music away with one hand and arched her back. I positioned myself behind her, spread her legs farther apart, and placed the tip of my cock between her wet lips. She was so wet that I slipped a little before finding the entrance.

—Get in —she ordered.

I pushed inside in a single thrust. Verónica let out a deep moan and planted both hands on the wood. Her cunt was hot, tight, and soaked. I stayed inside for a second, feeling the way she surrounded me, the way she squeezed me completely. Then I began to move.

At first slowly, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in to the hilt. The wet sound of our bodies colliding began to fill the room. She responded by thrusting her ass backward to take me better. Every time I went deep, her body trembled and released another, more broken moan.

—Harder —she asked—. Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass.

I grabbed her hip with one hand and held her gathered hair with the other. Then I began fucking her the way she wanted. My thrusts became hard, deep, and steady. The desk knocked softly against the wall. The sheet music slid onto the floor. Verónica moaned without restraint, her face turned to the side and her open blouse hanging from her shoulders.

I brought my hand to her cunt and began rubbing her clitoris while I penetrated her. She nearly collapsed onto the wood.

—Yes, yes, like that... don’t stop.

I fucked her more fiercely, feeling my cock slide out shiny and sink back into her open cunt. She was so wet that every thrust sounded obscene. She squeezed inside, trying to hold me, and that brought me to the edge. I looked down and saw my hand buried between her legs, my fingers rubbing her clitoris while my cock disappeared inside her. The sight completely undid me.

Verónica came first. I knew from the way her moan broke off and then became a long, trembling gasp while her cunt squeezed me in quick pulses. She gripped the edge of the desk and thrust her hips back against me, riding my cock.

—Don’t pull out —she said, half-broken—. Keep going... keep going.

I kept going. There was no technique, no lesson, no caution anymore. I was simply fucking her hard, my body striking hers, listening to her moans mingle with my heavy breathing. After a few more thrusts I felt my orgasm rising. I gripped her waist more tightly.

—I’m coming.

—Not inside —she said at once, still panting—. Pull it out.

I obeyed at the last second. I pulled my cock out and began jerking it over her ass and the curve of her thighs. The orgasm exploded violently. My semen shot out in thick, hot streams, falling onto her skin, splattering the small of her back and the edge of her lowered pants. I moaned without shame while continuing to pump myself until I had emptied completely.

Verónica glanced over her shoulder and smiled as she felt the warmth of my cum running over her. She passed two fingers over one of the white spots on her skin, looked at them for a moment, and then brought them to her mouth. That image stayed burned into me forever.

We remained like that for a few seconds, breathing hard, with the room in disarray and the piano silent a few steps away. Then she straightened up, found another cloth, and began cleaning herself and me with her usual serenity. I was still trembling.

—Now we really will finish the lesson —she said, fastening her pants.

I never heard a scale again without remembering her fingers, her mouth, her cunt squeezing me against that desk. I’m telling it now because the years keep passing and, of all the things I did afterward, nothing sank into me as deeply as that married teacher who taught me to play far more than a piano.