My Violin Teacher Asked Me to Stay an Hour Longer

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

She was in her thirties, with brown hair always tied back in a low bun and thin glasses she took off to play. She wore silk shirts with one button open more than necessary, giving a glimpse of the beginnings of big, firm tits, and straight skirts that emphasized her hips and round ass. Her mid-heel shoes clicked before she ever 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 staring at her long fingers on the violin neck, imagining them buried knuckle-deep in my pussy.

That afternoon, the group class ended at seven-thirty. There were five students, and the other four grabbed their cases and hurried off so they wouldn’t miss the quarter-to-eight bus. I was always the last one to leave. And I always took longer than necessary to put away my sheet music, pretending the case zipper had snagged 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 reach the recital without really feeling it.”

“Of course,” I answered. My hand shook a little when I подняв the bow.

She closed the classroom door. Then, with an almost absent-minded gesture, she turned the key.

“In case someone comes 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 late-afternoon light came in amber, cutting the wooden floor into bands 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 under 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. Hardly ever at my eyes. Do I make you nervous?”

I swallowed. The violin weighed more than ever. I thought about saying no, about hiding behind some excuse. But I’d been swallowing that desire for six months, and the truth came out before I could stop it.

“Yes.”

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

“Put the violin on the chair, Lucía.”

I did. Mariana came closer. She put a hand on my shoulder, slowly, like someone checking an instrument is properly tuned before playing it. Then she slid her hand up my neck to my jaw and turned my face so I was looking straight at her.

“Do you know what your problem is?” she murmured.

“No,” I lied again.

“I think you do. I think you know very well. I think you’ve been coming to my classes for months with wet panties.”

Her thumb brushed my lower lip. It wasn’t an innocent caress. It was a question without words. I answered without thinking: I opened my mouth a little and let her finger slip in just barely. I sucked it slowly, with my tongue, never taking my eyes off her. Mariana drew in a sharp breath and I felt her nipples tightening under the silk of her shirt. Up to that moment she had kept the calm of a patient teacher. After that gesture, something changed in her.

“I’ve been waiting for months for you to do that,” she whispered. “Months jerking off at home thinking about your mouth.”

She kissed me. It was a slow kiss at first, almost tentative, lips pressed together, until her tongue found mine and then there was no hesitation of any kind. She grabbed the back of my neck with a firm hand and held me there, not letting me get away, while the other hand slid down my back to my waist, and from there to my ass, squeezing it over my skirt. I didn’t resist. I let myself be carried away as I had never let myself be carried away by anyone, with a sweet dizziness in my stomach, my ears ringing, my breath coming in broken little pieces, and my pussy throbbing between my legs as if it had a heartbeat of its own.

When she pulled back, her eyes were shining.

“Have you ever 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 said, lifting my chin. “If at any point you want me to stop, you say so. All right?”

“All right.”

“Good. Now sit there.”

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

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

I leaned back and my hands bumped against the keys. Three lonely low notes sounded, blending with the silence of the classroom. I felt cold along my thighs when Mariana lifted my skirt with both hands at once. She didn’t take it off. She hiked it up to my waist, like an improvised belt, and stayed there for a few seconds staring at the wet bulge in my white panties.

“You’re so pretty,” she murmured. “You have no idea how pretty you are. And what a delicious cunt you’ve got showing down there.”

Her hands moved along the inside of my thighs, rising with a slowness that almost hurt. When she reached the edge of my underwear, she looked back up at my face, checking. I nodded. She hooked her fingers in the elastic and pulled my panties down to my ankles in one clean yank. Then she opened my legs all the way, setting my heels on the edge of the stool, and left me completely open before her. The amber late-afternoon light fell into my lap, illuminating my soaked, shaved pussy.

“Fuck, Lucía. You’re dripping.”

She ran two fingers over my lips, not pushing them in, just tracing from top to bottom, gathering the wetness. Then she brought them to her mouth and sucked them slowly, looking straight into my eyes. I nearly died. I clenched my fists on the keyboard and another chord of low notes rang out in the classroom.

“You taste incredible,” she said. “I want more.”

Mariana leaned in. I felt her breath first, warm on my clit. Then her mouth. The first time her tongue touched me there it was so soft I almost thought nothing had happened. The second pass was longer, surer, traveling me from bottom to top, from the entrance of my pussy to my clit, stopping where it had to stop and pressing where it had to press. I let out a low moan I didn’t even recognize as mine.

She started sucking my clit with her lips, trapping it, tugging very gently, while the tip of her tongue flicked over it in quick circles. Without realizing it, I opened my legs wider, pushing my pelvis against her face. She moaned into me, mouth full, and the sound vibrated through my body.

She held my hips with both hands. Not to force me: so I wouldn’t pull away, because my body kept drifting away from pleasure on its own, as if it didn’t know what to do with it. Mariana understood that immediately.

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

I breathed. She went back to work. This time she was more insistent, more rhythmic, a circular pressure of the tongue that sent waves of heat climbing through me. Then she lowered her mouth to the entrance and slid her tongue inside me, fucking me with it, in and out, while her thumb worked my clit with steady pressure. I didn’t know where to put my hands. One landed on the keyboard and the other stroked her hair, undoing her low bun without my even noticing. Her brown hair spilled over her shoulders. Seeing her like that, hair loose, kneeling in front of me with her face buried between my legs, in the conservatory classroom, the door locked and the late-afternoon light crossing her back, was what finally drove me mad.

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

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

“Put them in me,” I panted. “Your fingers. Please.”

She looked up without taking her mouth off me. Her green eyes were wide open. She didn’t stop. She slowly lifted two fingers, presented them at my entrance, and held them there, coating them in my juices. Then they slid into me slowly, like someone tuning a delicate instrument and afraid of pulling the tension too far. I felt a brief sting, a resistance that gave way with a small burn, and then a new heat I had never felt before, the sensation of being filled, invaded, opened from the inside. It wasn’t rough. It was careful. It was exact.

“Good?” she asked.

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

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

“More,” I begged. “Another finger.”

She obeyed. She pushed a third finger in with the other two, stretching me, and the burn came back for a few seconds before turning into pure pleasure. Now she moved them with more force, fucking me with her whole hand, her thumb pressing my clit when her tongue rested, her wrist keeping a steady rhythm that made my slick splash between her fingers.

My hands hit the keyboard again when I leaned back. A chaotic chord of three or four notes rang out, sustained by the open pedal, reverberating through the whole classroom like the absurd soundtrack to what was happening. Mariana lifted her head for a second and laughed out loud. Her chin and lips were shining, and a thread of my slick hung from her chin.

“The piano is protesting,” she said. “Let it protest. You’re gorgeous like this, open for me.”

I couldn’t speak. She leaned in again. She kissed the inside of my thigh, sucking until she left a red mark, while her fingers kept moving with that musical precision that lived in everything she did. And then, without warning, everything gathered into one point, very low, very deep, a tight ball of heat growing with every thrust of her fingers and every press of her tongue.

“I’m going to…” I started.

“I know,” she answered, never stopping. “Come in my mouth, Lucía. All of it. I want to feel it.”

She sped up her fingers and sucked my clit hard, drawing it between her lips, and I exploded. I came looking up at the conservatory classroom ceiling. Looking at the white molding, the hanging lamp, the tiny crack in the corner above the window. I came with my whole body, with a shudder that started in my thighs and climbed to my shoulders, her fingers clenching inside me in spasms I couldn’t control, with a long, drawn-out, animal moan that mingled with the still-living hum of the piano keys. I felt a hot gush of slick spill over her chin and neck, and she moaned when she felt it, sucking me, swallowing it, not taking her mouth away until I stopped trembling.

When she pulled her fingers out, with a wet sound that made me shiver all over 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. Then she carefully lowered my skirt, as if she were dressing a delicate instrument again, picked my panties up from the floor and tucked them into the pocket of her own skirt with a slow smile.

“I’m keeping these,” she said.

She sat down on the floor beside me, leaning against the side of the piano. It took me a while before I could look at her. When I did, she was smiling at me with an odd kind of calm, and she still had my smell on her face.

“Next Wednesday you’re staying too,” she said. “Right? And next time it’s your turn to kneel.”

I nodded. My voice wouldn’t come out, but my pussy tightened again just from thinking about it.

She lowered her head for a moment and retied her hair into a bun. She did it slowly, hardly looking at what she was doing, like an automatic gesture from the thousand times she fixed her hair every day. When she was done, she was once again Professor Mariana, the conservatory teacher, the one with the thin glasses. Only now she knew things about me no one else knew, and she had my wet panties in her pocket.

She helped me stand up. I picked up my violin. The case resisted me as always, but this time she helped me close it, and when she did her fingers brushed mine. That touch sent a shiver through me again, 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 stepped out into the hallway. The conservatory was empty, the lights dimmed, the janitor’s footsteps sounding very far away. I walked to the exit with the violin over my shoulder, my legs still trembling and with no panties under my skirt, feeling the cold evening air sliding up between my damp thighs. On the nine o’clock bus, sitting in the back, I touched my face with my fingertips and discovered that her citrus perfume was still clinging to my skin, and that if I smelled my hands I could still smell her.

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