The Lesson

The bell rings. I walk to the street door. My heart is hitting like a trip hammer. I've been waiting a week to see you, a week of flirty conversations, delays, disappointments, but now, finally, the doorbell rings.

I open the door and hold out my arms. I want to feel you first, take in your visual later. You come in for a hug, our arms jostling a bit for position.

"Hello, Karen."

"Hello, Frank."

I feel you pressed against me gently, then a moment tighter. We step back.

You've chosen a breezy, flowered wrap-around dress tied at the waist. God was good. I got divorced at the same moment that brassieres became optional. I watch your breasts sway as you turn to walk through the door. Your waist tapers in, then your hips and muscled ass flare out again. Perfect.

"Two things," I say, "What is your stop word?"

"Oh, uh, bananas."

"And call me 'Teacher'."

"Uh, okay."

I stop. Look back. Give you a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, Teacher."

"Let's get to work."

My Hinge profile says, "I can teach you how to..." and has a picture of me playing guitar. You responded, "I'd love to learn!" I gave you a little video concert that day. Our conversation escalated from there. Now here you are for your first guitar lesson. And whatever else we get up to.

I motion you to the couch as I pour two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. I hand you yours. We clink. Talk about nothing.

Our words talk about nothing but our eyes, another story. Our eyes run each others' bodies, then back up to lock for a moment too long, then back to the survey. My heart starts beating faster. I take belly breaths to balance my rising excitement.

I hand you a small guitar as you set down your glass. "This should fit under your boobs."

"Oh, these?" You thrust your chest out and look at me a little sideways. One of your profile pictures is of you in a huntress outfit. The top is thin and your nipples show through. I thought they looked good in the picture. Here in person, straining against the fabric of your dress, half erect already, they look positively delicious. Bigger than I expected. I can't wait to get my mouth... but we have work to do first.

You catch me staring at your nipple. A smirk plays on your mouth. But your nipple gets that much harder.

I grab another guitar. Put it in front my bulging crotch. Sit facing you, knees nearly touching. "We'll start with a D." I show you how and where to press the strings. You try. I lean forward. Touch your hand. Curve your fingers. I'm far into your space. Your scent, perfume and the stress of the drive up, send my head reeling.

You strum and make a clean chord. A smile washes over your face.

"Okay, the next chord is A7."

"My fingers hurt and I'm not sure I'm ready."

"You can do this. So the index finger goes..."

"I think I want to stop."

I give you the eyebrow. "Teacher, I want to stop."

"Karen, I'm afraid you need an attitude adjustment."

"No I don't."

I stand up. Rack my guitar. Take your guitar and rack it. Standing above you I hold out my hand.

"No I don't, Teacher."

I don't move. Our eyes lock. After a moment you drop your eyes to your lap and take my hand.

I lead you, threading through my furniture, down the hall, and into the bedroom. I sit on my bed, my legs apart, place my hands on your waist, pull you close, look up at you.

"You'll never learn anything with that attitude. You're lucky you have a Teacher who knows how to teach attitude as well as guitar."

"Yes, Teacher."

I turn you so you're facing my left. Clamp your two legs between mine. Press hard on your back until your hands and face are flat on my bed.

"I'll do better, Teacher."

"Yes, you will, but your lesson comes first."

I'm rubbing a big circle around your ass, fast enough that a little heat is forming. With no warning I flip your dress up around your waist and deliver a loud *smack* to the cheek nearest me.

"Hey! That hurt." You try to straighten up but my left hand keeps you pinned.

*Smack*, another pink handprint superimposed on the first.

You struggle. In vain.

*Smack* the far ass cheek. I hear a little whimper, turning into a moan. I'm getting through.

*Smack*. Your body goes limp across my lap. I glance at your face. Tears form at the corners of your eyes but your nostrils are flared, your eyes seeking mine.

"You *will* try when I tell you to try."

"Yes, Teacher."

We stand. Kiss. Our first kiss. Separate. Walk back to the couch. I hand you your guitar. Pick up mine.

"Show me your D." You play it perfectly. "Now an A7 is shaped like this." You play it, a little hesitantly. "And back to D." "And A7." I'm watching your fingers intently.

"Teacher?"

"Yes, Karen?"

"Teacher, I'm afraid."

Your breathing is fast and high. I can see your pulse pound in your throat.

"Of what?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to make a wet spot on your couch."

"You're that wet?"

You nod.

"We can't have that." I take both guitars and stand them up. Kneel in front of you. You spread your legs. I push your dress up with both hands. Your purple thong is soaked.

"I see what you mean. I'll clean that up."

I lick your panties, hear a moan from above. I pull them down, over your hips, over your muscled thighs, down to the floor. I lick from the bottom of your lips up to the little brown rectangle of curly hair. Again. For an instant you are just moist but then the juice flows out again. I lick long strokes, over and over.

Your hips start moving in time with my tongue. I concentrate on the tip of your clit, circles in time with your movement. The moans become a growl.

Your hands press the back of my head, harder when I hit the perfect spot. You hook your legs over my shoulders. Grind my tongue in harder.

The growl changes to "ohgodohgodohgodohgod", faster, higher, until your back arches and your legs drum on my back and you scream.

You sink into the couch. I slide up. Suck your hard nipples briefly. Give you a deep tongue kiss, my pussy-wet beard framing your mouth.

You open your eyes, satisfaction wrestling hunger. I stand. Hold out my hand. No hesitation taking it this time.

You untie your dress as you walk, hips swaying, drop it in front of my bed. You get on your knees on the edge of the bed, ass in the air, looking back at me eyebrows raised. I unbuckle, unzip in an instant. Grab your hips. Thrust balls deep in one smooth motion.

Your "FUCK" is muffled by the duvet. And so we begin the rhythm, the dance. Deep. Shallow. Faster. Slower. I take my lead from your hips. You take my lead from my thrusting cock.

As we build to a climax I keep the rhythm accelerating but begin taking breaths from deep in my belly. I spread the mounting sexual energy down my legs and up my spine. When your pussy clamps my cock I narrowly miss shooting too, hold myself deep inside you as the spasms roll up and down your back. You slowly subside.

I withdraw. Finish taking my pants off. My shirt. When I turn back to the bed you have scooted around, head on my pillow.

Here's a secret--when I see beautiful eyes I always imagine them looking up at me from my pillow. Your profile anticipated my need, that picture of you looking up from a pillow. Now, though, those gray? green? pale blue? eyes (it was hard to tell from the pictures) are staring up at me from my actual pillow. Whatever I had imagined the experience to be, the reality is a thousand volts straight from my eyes down my spine to my cock.

I climb between your spreading legs. Kiss you. As you open your mouth to share tongues my cock slides directly into your still-wet pussy. Lips and lips. And all mine.

I begin a slower tempo. All the way in. Pause. All the way out. The next thrust spreads your lips aside and presses all the way to the end of you. And out.

I started again too soon. This isn't going to last much longer. I don't care. Our eyes locked, we move with each other, the tilt of your hips matching my deepest penetration.

And faster. And faster. And your eyes finally roll back in your head and you shudder. Whether your orgasm called mine or mine called yours is impossible to know, irrelevant. I shoot deep inside you. Your pussy grips and rolls my cock, pulls me deeper. Wave after wave rolls from my feet to my head.

Spent, I collapse on your chest. Panting breaths come from us both. Another shudder takes me. More breaths. Another. And finally the ecstasy fades. My cock softens. Falls out. We kiss again. Laugh without words.

"Okay, now the G chord and we'll be ready to play songs."