Bill slumped over and padded at her piano. He fumbled around and listened to himself. He only looked at the room's decorations like the wide square of sun that burst through the French doors. A golden Victorian clock on the mantelpiece. The teacher's cleavage, made thick and pert by her black cotton dress. The hardwood floor. Her fair skin, each half-breast identical except for one faint blue vein. Her red thin lips opened. "Your mind is somewhere else today, Bill. Have you been out drinking?"
Her round face curled in a smile and he remembered hearing somewhere, Never trust a girl with thin lips. Her bright blue eyes found his and the closer his gaze wandered to her chest, the more danger pumped through his blood. She seemed indifferent.
"Even in my early twenties, my parents won't let me out. I think I'll always be their slave. Their loss, I say." He squinted. "I make a fine slave, but I can be a handful."
She giggled. "Keep playing your chords. I haven't had to rap your fingers with a spoon yet, but you are uncontrollable. Pay attention."
He gave attention to himself, the cool smooth keys on his fingers, her warm chest beside his head, the light on her flank where the sun and the dress clung to her figure. He watched the tiny curve of her belly, the navel a bare dent in the dress. He traced the vein again.
"Bill, if you looked at the keys so intently instead of my boobs, you would be a virtuoso in a week."
The chords stopped. He blushed.
"Come on, it's a good thing." She sat on the edge of the piano, her hips beside his hands. Her chest leaned closer. "Use that desire. You want this delicate, black and white thing, don't you? Your parents are paying a lot of money for this and I'll give you your money's worth, even if I have to tease it out of you." Two slender pianist fingertips, painted her lips' natural red, touched her chest. "Play," she whispered.
Bill smirked at her and hit the chords. "Can you blame me for wanting something different? I've spent my life locked away by their wealth. They control their banks and their children. Everything they make, they dominate. Maybe I want a different experience. Don't you ever wonder how different your routine could be?"
The teacher reached for something on top of the piano. She smacked the spoon down on his fingers. The piano clanged.
"Ow!"
"Play!"
In his gasp, she glimpsed a delighted grin. He ran through the chords faster.
"Hmm, I think you have the hang of it. So, you really want to do things differently?" She tugged the dress. It stretched, her cleavage seemed to grow. "Maybe you're more classic than classical." She stood. "Come on, into the library."
Bill followed her swaying hips, her cheeks' shape poking through the dress. All around, old books in shelves wallpapered the room and loomed over the tiger skin rug, the leather furniture and empty fireplace. She waved him to the rug.
"Maybe you're into Milton? I have an old poem here about when Satan tried to take over Heaven."
Bill moved the way he played, uneasy, unfamiliar. "I'm into all kinds of blasphemy. You know how I feel about rules."
"Dante wrote about going to Hell." Her lips danced about, thin red fire, big shapes and clear words. Her tongue peeked out and Bill grew faint. Watching those lips, flame one second, a damp orifice the next, he forgot her pale body and didn't hear her.
He moved closer. "This is all very fancy."
The teacher's breath stroked his neck. Bill realised how close he'd moved. She giggled, squinted at him and shook her head. A lock of black hair touched his shoulder.
