Elizabeth was like no other student I've had, before or since. Most adults who want to learn to play guitar are folksingers, or fans of fingerpicking bluegrass. They come as they are, the guys in jeans and t-shirts, the women looking pretty much the same. No makeup, just plain vanilla (though as you'll see, Elizabeth had her own uses for vanilla).
Elizabeth was not like that. She had grown up in New Orleans. She wanted to learn how to play ragtime guitar.
She had a way of carrying herself with a sexy dignity and a quiet, playful side to her made-up face and sexy clothes. She didn't make movements or comments that were directly sexual, but everything was sensuous.
Maybe it had something to do with being descended from Southern belles. Her grandmother lived in an old house in Atlanta, and Elizabeth told me some of the family stories about how General Sherman's boys mistreated everything and everybody and nearly destroyed the house, back in the Civil War.
The first time she walked in for a lesson, I was sure she was out of place. It must have been a Christmas present from her husband or something, a miscalculation that would soon play itself out.
But she hung in there and made progress, learning fingering and picking pretty well.
Until Elizabeth, I mistrusted such obvious sexual signals as the slinky walk, the rustly, clingy dress, the smoothly madeup face with bright red lipstick. They seemed contrived.
But she was a natural with all that. She would slink into the room with a sideways look of her eyes, a soft smile on her red lips. Her clothes seemed to suit her so well, but she made me feel almost as if she dressed for me.
I couldn't help noticing her shapely ass as she sidled across the room. She seemed to make the most of those few moments each week when she walked into the room in front of me.
Her cleavage was always suggestive. She had good-sized boobs, large, full, with firm, tasty nipples (oops, I'm getting ahead of myself).
Sometimes she wore tight slacks, but often dresses or skirts that were on the short side, with dark pantyhose over shapely legs. She usually sat down cross-legged in such a way that showed as much leg as possible..
Now when you hold a guitar up against your chest, it's usually like a shield for your breasts if you're a woman, but Elizabeth practically made her guitar into a platter, serving up one or both of her breasts on display. It was hard not to stare at them.
And if her breasts were squeezed behind the guitar, her cleavage was that much more open and revealing. She of course acted like nothing unusual was going on, and she was so relaxed about it that I couldn't be sure anything was out of the ordinary--for her, anyway.
She never minded when I sat opposite her with our knees nearly touching, and helped her with her strumming hand, or helped position her arm under the neck of the guitar, my hand practically brushing her inner thigh.
Once I had her do an exercise where she closed her eyes and tried to find a high fret without looking, and then slid her hand back to the base of the guitar neck, to see if she had the feel for where things were without looking.
She got pretty close to the fret I was asking her to find but then when she slid slowly back to position, she missed the end of the strings, and continued her slow, sliding fingers back along the pegbox to the very tip of the guitar's neck where she gave two subtle strokes to the tip before opening her eyes and smiling.
"Oh, I guess I went too far!" she exclaimed in her slow Southern accent.
After watching her fingers stroke the narrow phallic tip of the guitar, with her left breast displayed over the curve of the guitar body, and plenty of bare skin revealed above the low cut blouse, I realized that my cock was not asleep.
I got up to help her find the proper fret and this time stood behind her and helped hold her arm so she could learn the distance her hand needed to go to find that note. Looking over her shoulder down into that cleavage nearly showed me all the way to her nipples and my cock was actually poking straight into my pants. She wouldn't have missed it, if she was looking. She never let on that she saw anything, but then she never seemed to miss anything either.
At first, I was embarrassed and while still trying to teach, I was also scrambling to think of how to hide my arousal. But then I thought to myself, so what if she sees? I even went further along that line of thinking and (while talking about fingerpicking technique) imagined just acknowledging the hardon and saying, "See what you do to me?" and then my half-daydream pictured her putting down her guitar with her measured, smooth way of moving and without hesitation, turning back to me and saying, "Well, maybe I can help with that," and placing her soothing hand on my crotch while unbuckling and unzipping me to release my hardon to her attentions.
But neither of us let on we noticed anything and she packed up her guitar at the end of the lesson, and left, allowing the next student to come in. I carried on as if all were as it should be.
The next time Elizabeth came for a lesson, she told me she'd be missing the following lesson. She and her husband were going away for a week over New Year's.
The lesson proceeded as usual, with me focusing on teaching her as well as I could, while enjoying my usual views of her sexy mouth, her full bosom, her lowcut thin blouse, her short skirt with crossed legs showing me thigh nearly to the hip, and I even took it to heart (or should I say I took it to crotch) when she kicked off her shoes to be more comfortable. Her toenails were freshly painted to match her red lips, and it was almost as if she wanted me to see them.
At the end of the lesson, as she packed up her guitar, and just before she put on her coat, I cheerily wished her a good trip, and a Happy New Year. I made to give her a New Year's hug. Months of being increasingly turned on by her couldn't hold me back from at least trying.
She was happy for the hug and pulled me tight enough for her hip to feel that my crotch was growing very pushy.
She suddenly pulled me in for a quick kiss on the cheek, and I turned to give her a dry kiss on the lips. Her hand brushed my crotch, and I heard her mutter something so fast and so barely audible under her breath that I wasn't sure what it was, so I said loudly, "What?"
"Oh, nothing," she said.
But my mind had pieced together what she had said. It was something like, "Kiss? Down there?"
And I said loudly, "Yeah, sure, you want to?"
And she started and looked at me to gauge whether I had actually heard what she said, and then she said, "Okay."
I leaned over to push in the door knob lock, thankful that this teaching room didn't have a window like some did.
There was incredible tension in that room in that moment as I went back to my teaching chair to sit down, still not sure if she really said what she said.
But she came over to me and slid her hands from both my shoulders down my arms to my hands as she knelt down in front of my chair. Her face was serious as she turned her attention to my tented pants.
