It's a warm Tuesday afternoon in May, and I'm catching up on my studying on the lawn outside the music building. I'm a music major at the University of... well, to protect the innocent let's just say it's a large state university in California. Plenty of time before my piano lesson, I think to myself, until I glance at my watch... 2:25 - only 5 minutes until my lesson! I must have lost track of time as I was enjoying the feel of the sun on my skin! 5 minutes is plenty of time to gather up my things and walk up the two flights of stairs to Dr. Foster's studio - but nowhere close to enough time to make it back to my dorm room and change into a more decent outfit.
I feel several sets of eyes on me as I quickly jump up off the lawn, brush the grass off my long legs, and gather up my books. My pleated skirt is short enough that I'm sure the guy sitting behind me is getting a nice view of my ass as I grab my backpack - and I hear a whistle from the other end of the lawn as I arch my back to slip my arms through the straps, showing off my 36C breasts which are barely concealed in a black bikini top.
Normally, I'd enjoy this little bit of attention, since it usually suffices as my love life - I spend so much time alone in the practice room or studying that I never have time for guys - at the moment, though, it's just irritating. I had planned to leave enough time to get back to my dorm room and change, as these clothes, while fine for sitting out in the sun, are hardly appropriate for a lesson with Dr. Foster. But being late to my lesson would be even worse, so I know I have no choice but to show up dressed like this.
As I open the door of the music building, I feel my heart skip a beat. Nothing out of the ordinary - I'm often nervous as I arrive here, on my way to a lesson or a performance. But today there's the added stress of running in at the last minute, barely dressed. Some of my friends probably wouldn't think twice about showing up for a lesson in a slutty outfit... but I'm a firm believer in showing my teachers some respect. More importantly, though, I'd hate for Dr. Foster to have any hint of the huge crush I've developed for him.
Oh, wait, I do have a top in my backpack that I can throw on! I glance up at the clock and realize that I have about two minutes to spare, and rush to the restroom, just down the hall from Dr. Foster's studio. Sure enough, tossed carelessly into my backback, there's the white blouse I had taken off earlier as I sat in the sun. I quickly pull it on, go to the sink and splash a little water on my face to cool off, and then check myself out in the mirror to make sure I look at least a little decent.
I'm actually relieved once I see the innocent young college student looking back at me. I'm 20, but most people think I look younger - more like 18. 5'7", big blue eyes, blond hair cascading down onto my shoulders. My skin is glowing from being out in the sun for the past few hours. I carefully button each button of the blouse I've just put on so that it covers my bikini top and settles just above the waist of my short pleated skirt.
A few deep breaths, my backpack over my shoulder, and I'm ready to walk - slowly this time - down the hall just in time to meet Dr. Foster as he opens the door to look for me.
"Right on time, as usual - your punctuality is always appreciated, Joanna!"
If only he knew, I thought to myself, but instead chose the more appropriate, "Hello, Dr. Foster, how are you today?"
"How many times do I have to tell you, please call me Greg," he said as he did every week. But before I could answer, he launched into one of his typical stories from the week - something about what happened after so-and-so's concert or the latest politics among the faculty. He's notorious among the students for enjoying the sound of his own voice, but I don't mind, because these few minutes at the beginning of each week's lesson give me the chance to study his body as he talks. I've always admired him - he's such a wonderful performer and teacher, and also such a handsome man. Sure, he's old enough to be my father, and I'd die before admitting to anyone that I fantasized about him, but I figure these few minutes of naughty thoughts each week were more than balanced by all of my hard work in practicing and studying. Heck, it was practically my only vice, and it didn't hurt anyone.
He winds up his story - couldn't tell you what it was, since I wasn't really listening - and then sits down at the other piano to play for me. "I've been thinking about the trouble you were having with the Chopin Impromptu, Joanna - and I have a new idea. Listen as I play it for you, and see if you can pick up on what I'm doing differently." With that, he launches instantly into the hardest passage of the piece, the one I had spent hours practicing that week. I watch his strong hands fly across the keyboard, making it all look so easy.
Now I split my attention - I'm still admiring his body, but also doing as he asked and listening to his performance, trying to be the best student I could be. Musically, I see what he's doing - there's more freedom in his playing than mine, and he's much more relaxed. Physically, I can't take my eyes off of what I can see of his muscled body under his suit, remarkably fit for his age (he had turned 50 earlier this year). And I love watching his salt-and-pepper hair fly wildly as he lets himself become completely engrossed in the music.
As he stops playing and turns to me, I quickly pull my thoughts back into focus. "Piano lesson, piano lesson. He's your teacher, not a sex object, pull yourself together," I tell myself.
"So, do you see what I'm doing, Joanna? You've worked plenty hard on this music, you know it inside and out, what you need to do now is just relax and let yourself go," he said with his usual enthusiasm when he knows he's found the answer. My facial expression must have betrayed what he already knew after being my teacher for the last two years. "And yes, I know that relaxing and letting yourself go is the very hardest thing for you to do, Joanna - but it's the next step you need to take in becoming an artist!" And then, realizing that he had gotten carried away and was practically shouting at me, he continued in a much quieter voice. "Why don't you start playing at the beginning, and we'll work through it slowly. I might talk as you're playing to give you suggestions, but whatever I do, don't stop! The goal is to lose yourself in the music."
His enthusiasm was always catching, so even though I doubted my ability to relax while my teacher was watching me, I decided to trust his methods and go for it.
"Remember," he said after I had played just a few bars, "whatever I do, don't stop playing."
First, I felt his hands on my shoulders. This was nothing new, as it was his method for helping me relax. When I first started studying with him, even that slight touch completely turned me on - but I had gotten used to it over the past few years. I had also grown used to feeling his breath on my neck, as he bent down to whisper an instruction in my ear - usually something about less pedal, or more left hand - but what he said now froze my hands on the piano.
