The story you’re about to read is entirely true. It sounds like a letter to magazine, but since I was there, I can tell you – it happened...oh yes, it did...
Tomas was a professor in the music department at my college. He taught jazz bass. I was a classical voice student, so you’d think that our paths wouldn’t cross very often. But they did. A surprising number of times, actually. Here I was, this little bitty 5-foot-5 white girl from the south. And here was this tall, handsome, educated, talented African-American man who looked at me with big brown eyes and a smile that made me melt into a puddle – or at least made my panties wet whenever he flashed it. I knew he was at least ten years older than me. I also knew that it was against the rules for professors and students to have any sort of relationship. But I didn’t care. I fantasized about him, I wanted him, and came up with a whole series of masturbatory daydream-fantasies as to how it would happen. But what really happened caught me by surprise.
We had flirted many times in subtle ways. He would compliment me, check me out, wink at me. And I would wear provocative outfits when I worked in the office and knew he’d be coming by to check his mail and messages. My 36DD’s were enough to impress most men, and I took advantage of it. I had hips to match, and knew that he liked them as well, since he’d commented on my skirts many times. But this particular night, I didn’t even know he’d be in the building. I’d been going to the music building practice rooms every night to keep my voice well-tuned for my performance later in the week.
The building was old, built as a home in the 1800’s. The main and upper floors were used as classroom and office space. But the basement area had been set aside for practice rooms. Any given night, you could wander in there and hear people singing, playing instruments or scales on the pianos in each room. There were about 15 rooms total. One door, for each room, which was only about 8-foot-by-10-foot. Inside, there was a piano, bench, and a mirror on the wall. Each door had a tiny window on it, most of which were covered, because we musicians are “sensitive” about people watching us practice when we don’t feel that the piece is ready to perform.
I chose an empty room, set out my music and began to do scales to warm up my voice. After about 15 minutes of warm-ups, I decided to go get a drink of water from the fountain. As I was walking down the hall, I heard a low wolf-whistle. I turned to look, and there he was – all six-foot-five of him, smiling at me. “Well, hi there, what are you doing here this late?” I asked. He told me that he’d had a late lesson, and was just working on some personal tunes for a while. “How nice to see you,” he said. “What are you doing here so late?” I told him that I had a performance at the end of the week and was keeping my pipes warmed up.
We walked to the fountain, and when I leaned to take a drink, he brushed past me – briefly pressing the front of his body to the back of mine. I caught my breath. We sat and talked for a few minutes, me completely conscious of the fact that I was wearing sweatpants, a tank top and a zip-up jacket. (Why oh why did I pick that for that night? I wondered). I made a joke about the way I was dressed. He said, “I’ve always liked women in casual clothes. They’re easier to remove,” he said, and unzipped the front of my jacket. I blushed. Was he really hitting on me? Hair in a ponytail and all?
Tomas asked me if I wanted to hear some of the tunes he’d been working on, and I told him I’d love to hear them. We walked down the hall to the practice room he was set up in, and he told me that he liked to watch me walk. “You have lovely curves,” he said. I smiled and winked at him, and sat down on the piano bench. He closed and locked the door. He picked up his bass, told me he’d written this piece for his brother, and proceeded to play a slow, lovely melody on his bass guitar.
When he was done, he looked at me. I told him how beautiful I thought the piece was. Bass is usually the foundation for the melody, but this piece had a life of its own. He smiled and put down the bass. He walked over to me and touched my face. I tried not to show how much I enjoyed the touch of his hands, but failed miserably. He leaned down and kissed me with soft, full, sensual lips. In his deep, rich voice, he said, “I have wanted you for so long.” I kissed him back, placing my arms around his neck. Exploring his mouth with my tongue. He reached around me and picked me up off the piano bench. I wrapped my legs around his hips. I have never felt so delicate and feminine in all my life as when this tall, broad-shouldered man held me in his arms and kissed me. He slid his hands under my bottom, and I felt his fingertips on the inside of my thighs. His hard cock was pressed between my legs as he put my back against the wall. I moaned into his mouth, begged him “Please, fuck me.” He pressed his fingers into my skin and kissed my neck, licking my earlobes, kissing my mouth, pressing his face between my breasts. I pulled up my tank top and he flicked his tongue against my nipple, biting and sucking it hard. I ground my pussy into him. I was already soaking wet. He moved to my other breast, supporting my body with one arm and taking my whole breast into his large hand, putting my breast into his mouth, licking with quick movements across my nipple and circling my breast.
