My Violin Teacher Asked Me to Stay an Extra Hour

I'm Lucía, and I still remember that October afternoon when my teacher stopped being just my teacher. I was nineteen, had been at the municipal conservatory in my city for six months, and until that afternoon my only experience with desire had been alone, in front of the mirror, with two fingers between my legs while fantasizing about women I saw in the magazines at the newsstand. But Mariana was different. Mariana was real. And Mariana was a yard away from me every Wednesday, patiently correcting the position of my right arm with a patience that bordered on tenderness.

She was in her thirties, with brown hair always tied in a low bun and delicate glasses she took off to play. She wore silk blouses unbuttoned one button more than necessary, hinting at the beginnings of large, firm breasts, and straight skirts that outlined her hips and round ass. Her medium-height heels announced her before she appeared in the hallway. When she sat beside me to correct me, her perfume—something citrusy and woody at the same time—completely destroyed my concentration. I spent entire lessons watching her long fingers on the violin's fingerboard, imagining them buried knuckle-deep in my cunt.

That afternoon, the group lesson ended at seven-thirty. There were five of us, and the other four hurriedly packed up their cases so they wouldn't miss the quarter-to-eight bus. I was always the last to leave. And I always took longer than necessary to put away my music, pretending the case's clasp had tangled so I could steal two more minutes with her.

“Lucía, stay a moment,” Mariana said when we were alone. Her voice sounded different. Lower. More private. “I want to go over the passage from the second movement with you. It wouldn't be fair for you to arrive at the recital without feeling it properly.”

“Of course,” I replied. My hand trembled slightly when I lifted the bow.

She closed the classroom door. Then, with an almost distracted gesture, she turned the key.

“In case someone comes in looking for a chair and interrupts us,” she said without looking at me.

The classroom had a large window overlooking the conservatory's inner courtyard. The evening light came in amber, splitting the wooden floor into strips and falling across the left side of her face. For the first time I saw her up close, without the rush of the other students around us. She had a tiny freckle beneath her lower lip.

“Why don't you look me in the eyes when we talk?” she asked.

“I do look at you,” I lied.

“No. You look at the floor, you look at the violin, you look at my hand. Almost never at my eyes. Do I make you nervous?”

I swallowed. The violin felt heavier than ever. I thought about saying no, about hiding behind some random excuse. But I'd been swallowing that desire for six months, and the truth escaped before I could stop it.

“Yes.”

She smiled. It wasn't a kind teacher's smile. It was something else.

“Put the violin on the chair, Lucía.”

I did. Mariana came closer. She placed one hand on my shoulder, slowly, like someone checking that an instrument was properly tuned before playing it. Then she slid her hand up my neck to my jaw and turned my face so I would look at her directly.

“Do you know what's wrong with you?” she murmured.

“No,” I lied again.

“I think I do. I think you know very well. I think you've been coming to my lessons for months with your panties soaked.”

Her thumb brushed my lower lip. It wasn't an innocent caress. It was a wordless question. I answered without thinking: I parted my lips slightly and let her finger enter just a little. I sucked it slowly, with my tongue, without stopping looking at her. Mariana drew a deep breath, and I noticed her nipples tightening beneath the silk of her blouse. Until that moment she'd kept the composure of a patient teacher. After that gesture, something in her changed.

“I've been waiting months for you to do that,” she whispered. “Months masturbating at home while thinking about your mouth.”

She kissed me. At first it was a slow kiss, almost exploratory, our lips pressed together, until her tongue found mine and there was no hesitation left of any kind. She gripped the back of my neck with one firm hand and held me there, not letting me escape, while her other hand moved down my back to my waist, then to my ass, squeezing it through my skirt. I didn't resist. I let myself go as I'd never let myself go with anyone, with a sweet dizziness in my stomach, my ears ringing, my breathing ragged, and my cunt throbbing between my legs as if it had a pulse of its own.

When she pulled away, her eyes were shining.

“Have you done this with a woman before?”

“No.”

“With a man?”

I shook my head.

“Has anyone ever fucked you?”

“No one,” I whispered.

“Look at me,” she asked, lifting my chin. “If you want me to stop at any point, say so. All right?”

“All right.”

“Good. Now sit there.”

She pointed to the stool of the upright piano against the wall beneath the window. It was an old piano that was rarely used, its lid open above the keyboard. I sat with my back to the keys. Mariana knelt in front of me, slowly, her straight skirt pulled tight over her thighs. She looked up at me, waiting for something. I didn't need to ask what.

“Lean back,” she said. “Let go. Open your legs for me.”

I leaned back, and my hands struck the keyboard. Three isolated, low notes rang out, mingling with the silence of the classroom. I felt cold on my thighs when Mariana lifted my skirt with both hands at once. She didn't take it off. She left it bunched around my waist like an improvised belt, then spent a few seconds staring at me, her eyes fixed on the damp bulge of my white panties.

“You're so beautiful,” she murmured. “You have no idea how beautiful you are. And what a delicious cunt you have showing through there.”

Her hands traveled along the insides of my thighs, moving upward with a slowness that almost hurt. When she reached the edge of my underwear, she looked at my face again, checking. I nodded. She hooked her fingers into the elastic and pulled my panties down to my ankles in one clean tug. Then she spread my legs all the way, resting my heels on the edge of the stool, and left me completely open before her. The amber evening light fell across my lap, illuminating my shaved, soaked cunt.

“Fuck, Lucía. You're dripping.”

She ran two fingers over my lips without putting them inside, simply tracing them from top to bottom and gathering the moisture. Then she brought them to her mouth and sucked them slowly, looking me in the eyes. I nearly died. I clenched my fists on the keyboard, and another string of low notes resonated through the classroom.

“You taste like heaven,” she said. “I want more.”

Mariana leaned in. I felt her breath first, hot against my clitoris. Then her mouth. The first time her tongue touched me there, it was so gentle I almost thought it hadn't happened. The second time was longer, surer, traveling over me from bottom to top, from the opening of my cunt to my clitoris, stopping where it needed to stop and applying pressure where it needed to. I let out a low moan I didn't even recognize as my own.

She began sucking my clitoris with her lips, catching it and tugging very gently while the tip of her tongue flicked it in quick circles. I spread my legs wider without realizing it, thrusting my pelvis against her face. She moaned against me, her mouth full, and the sound vibrated inside me.

She held my hips with both hands. Not to force me: to keep me from retreating, because my body kept pulling itself away from the pleasure, as if it didn't know what to do with it. Mariana understood immediately.

“Stay right here,” she said, lifting her mouth for a second, her chin shining with my juices. “Don't go anywhere. It's all right. Breathe. Let me eat you whole.”

I breathed. She returned to her place. This time she was more insistent, more rhythmic, her tongue pressing in circles as the heat rose through me in waves. Then she lowered her mouth to the opening and slipped her tongue inside me, fucking me with it, moving in and out while her thumb worked my clitoris with steady pressure. I didn't know where to put my hands. I rested one on the keyboard and stroked her hair with the other, undoing her low bun without realizing it. Her brown hair fell over her shoulders. Seeing her like that, with her hair loose, kneeling in front of me with her face between my legs, in the conservatory classroom, the door locked and the evening light crossing her back, was what finally drove me crazy.

“Mariana,” I said aloud for the first time. “Mariana, please.”

“Please what?” she murmured against my cunt. “Say it.”

“Put them inside me,” I gasped. “Your fingers. Please.”

She raised her eyes without taking her mouth away from me. Her green eyes were wide open. She didn't stop. She slowly raised two fingers, brought them to the entrance, and left them waiting, coating them in my juices. Then they entered me slowly, like someone tuning a delicate instrument who is afraid of tightening it too much. I felt a brief stab, a resistance that gave way with a small burn, and then a new warmth I'd never felt before, the sensation of being filled, invaded, opened from within. It wasn't rough. It was careful. It was exact.

“All right?” she asked.

“Yes,” I gasped. “Yes, keep going. Deeper.”

She began moving them. Slowly at first, calibrating. Then with a firm rhythm, curling them forward and seeking that spongy spot behind my pubic bone while her tongue kept working my clitoris above. Each thrust made a wet, obscene sound that bounced off the walls of the empty classroom. The combination stole my breath. I squeezed my thighs together without meaning to, trapping her head against my cunt, and she laughed softly against me, a vibrating sound I felt inside and that tore another, louder moan from me.

“More,” I begged. “Another finger.”

She obeyed. She inserted a third finger alongside the other two, stretching me, and the burning returned for a few seconds before turning into pure pleasure. Now she moved them with greater force, fucking me with her whole hand, her thumb pressing my clitoris whenever her tongue rested, her wrist giving them a steady rhythm that made my juices splash between her fingers.

My hands struck the keyboard again as I leaned back. A chaotic chord of three or four notes rang out, prolonged by the open pedal, reverberating throughout the classroom like an absurd soundtrack to what was happening. Mariana lifted her head for a moment and laughed out loud. Her chin and lips were shining, and a thread of my juices hung from her chin.

“The piano is protesting,” she said. “Let it protest. You look beautiful like this, open for me.”

I couldn't speak. She bent down again. She kissed the inside of my thigh, sucking it until she left a red mark, while her fingers kept moving with the musical precision that everything about her possessed. And then, without warning, everything concentrated in one point, very low, very deep, a tight ball of heat that grew with every thrust of her fingers and every pressure of her tongue.

“I'm going to…” I began.

“I know,” she replied, without stopping. “Come in my mouth, Lucía. All of you. I want to feel it.”

She sped up her fingers and sucked my clitoris hard, drawing it between her lips, and I exploded. I came staring at the ceiling of the conservatory classroom. Staring at the white molding, the hanging lamp, the tiny crack in the corner above the window. I came with my whole body, a tremor beginning in my thighs and rising to my shoulders, squeezing her fingers inside me with uncontrollable spasms, with a long, sustained, animal moan that mingled with the piano keys' still-living hum. I felt a hot stream of juices escape over her chin and neck, and she moaned when she felt it, licking me and swallowing it, never taking her mouth away until I stopped trembling.

When she pulled out her fingers, with a wet sound that made me shudder again, she brought them to her lips and sucked them one by one in front of me, looking into my eyes, leaving not a trace behind. Then she carefully lowered my skirt, as if dressing a delicate instrument again, picked up my panties from the floor, and slipped them into the pocket of her own skirt with a slow smile.

“I'm keeping these,” she said.

She sat on the floor beside me, leaning against the side of the piano. It took me a while to be able to look at her. When I did, she was smiling at me with a strange calm, and my scent still lingered on her face.

“You're staying next Wednesday too,” she said. “Right? And next time, you'll be the one kneeling.”

I nodded. My voice wouldn't come, but my cunt clenched again at the mere thought of it.

She lowered her head for a moment and tied her hair back into a bun again. She did it slowly, barely looking at what she was doing, like an automatic gesture from the thousand times she fixed her hair each day. When she finished, she was Professor Mariana again, the one from the conservatory, the one with the delicate glasses. Only now she knew things about me that no one else knew, and she was carrying my wet panties in her pocket.

She helped me stand. I picked up the violin. The case resisted me as always, but this time she helped me close it, and as she did, her fingers brushed mine. That touch sent another shiver through me, now that I knew what those fingers tasted like and what they were capable of doing inside me.

“See you Wednesday, Lucía,” she said, opening the door.

“See you Wednesday,” I replied.

I went out into the hallway. The conservatory was empty, the lights at half intensity, the caretaker's footsteps sounding far away. I walked to the exit with the violin over my shoulder, my legs still trembling and nothing beneath my skirt, feeling the cold evening air enter between my wet thighs. On the nine o'clock bus, sitting in the back, I touched my face with my fingertips and discovered that her citrus perfume still clung to my skin, and that when I smelled my hands they still smelled of her.

That night I slept without undressing, with two fingers between my legs, reliving every second of what had happened. And the following Wednesday, when I arrived at the classroom, she looked at me from the music stand and smiled at me as no one had ever smiled before.