I sat on the wide polished piano bench. Late afternoon sun cast striped shadows as it streamed through half opened blinds; golden motes of dust danced silently in the air.
He sat, as he always did, next to me.
Years ago, I had begged my mother to learn to play – we had a baby grand at home – and she finally relented. I had started lessons with him three years before when I was fifteen; a month ago, I turned eighteen. I was a senior, so, in the fall, I would be going away to college and the lessons would end.
Mr. Norris was wonderful; he was immensely patient and understanding. Whenever I had trouble with a lesson, he always took the extra time to help me over the inevitable rough spots. I was getting pretty good, even if I do say so myself.
Oh ... there's one more thing about Mr. Norris – I loved him more than life itself.
Of course, he didn't know. He was married. He and Irene didn't have any children, even though they were old enough to be my parents. I'd seen Irene on many occasions and I really liked her, too. But as much as I liked her, she still presented a problem – she stood between me and the man I loved.
I can't begin to tell you the number of times I wished Irene would get sick, and die; or drop dead of a sudden heart attack.
Yes, I know, those were horrible thoughts and I knew I was a terrible person for thinking them. Every time such thoughts would invade my mind I'd realize how rotten I was for thinking them; more than once, tears welled up in my eyes because of my shame, because Irene was so nice, and how could I have thought such terrible things about her.
Precisely when I fell in love with Ed – that's Mr. Norris' first name and he prefers that his older students use it rather than 'mister' – I cannot say. It had been a long time though. Many times I had cried myself to sleep at night; I loved him so much.
And I confess that I have so very often closed my eyes at night in my bed and seen him there. There in bed, with me. He'd be naked and so would I. He'd have his arms around me and I would feel his warmth and his strength. He would hold me and he would make me feel so wonderful and safe. He would kiss me; and I would kiss him back.
At bedtime, when I would close my eyes and see him and feel him hold me ... well, I ... I would put my fingers between my legs; and they would become his fingers and I would feel his strong hands rubbing me – making me breath funny and making my tummy tense up; making me get all wet down there. Sometimes I would almost scream as my fingers – no his fingers – would make me feel so good and I'd feel heat travel in waves through me; though the heat would make me shiver all over until I couldn't stand it anymore.
And sometimes, there were even naughtier things I would see behind closed eyelids.
That day of my lesson was a day after an especially vivid and active bedtime session the night before. As I sensed him sitting next to me on the piano bench with his leg pressed lightly against mine, I felt wetness between my legs. It always did that as soon as he sat next to me.
I had finished my warm up exercises and we were starting the lesson when he stopped me and chided me for the millionth time about my posture at the piano. I only had poor posture during my lessons; because it meant he would touch me.
"Lisa, how many times do I have to tell you? You know better ... I know you do." He said.
And then, as he always did, he put one hand on my shoulder and the other in the small of my back. The hand on my back would press forward and the hand on my shoulder would press back, forcing me to sit up straight. Then, he'd put one hand on my elbow closest to him and he would reach around my back and take the other elbow in his other hand and he'd lift them both to the proper position that I should have them in as I played.
When he would do this, it always meant he'd have to lean in very close to me as he reached around behind my back; and that day, something snapped inside my head.
As he positioned my elbows, I turned my head towards him, tilted it at just the right angle, and leaned over and kissed him. As I kissed him, I placed both my hands on his cheeks and caressed his beautiful face.
For me, the kiss lasted an eternity. It was so sweet; so tender, so loving.
When he pulled away from me, I prepared myself for the worst.
"Lisa! What has gotten into you?" He said; though he spoke softly and gently as he always did. He had never raised his voice to me, or to anyone else that I knew of.
Before he could reject me – because, if he did, I knew life wouldn't be bearable – I leaned in once more and placed my lips on his and cut off the words I knew I was about to hear; and which, I also knew would destroy me.
My kiss was more passionate the second time. My tongue forced itself into his mouth and as I put my soul into that kiss, I drew his hand up under my sweater to my breast which was bare; I never wore a bra when I went to see him.
His hand felt exactly as I always had imagined during my bedtime fantasies; only it was real. It was his real warmth I felt; his actual strong fingers that squeezed and kneaded the softness of my breast. It was his breath combining with my breath, his warm moist lips pressing against my mouth; his tongue invading me, exploring me, dancing inside my mouth.
It was him, my love, who moaned softly when I placed my hand on his lap and felt the hardness of his wanting me.
"Lisa ... Lisa, we can't ..."
I silenced him once more with my lips. There was only one thing I would hear from him and if it could not be 'I love you' I would let no other words escape his lips.
I took his hand from my breast and guided it under my skirt and spread my legs to accept him. I felt the warmth of him on the heat of me. I felt my moisture as I pressed his fingers into my burning need. I pulled aside my panties and consumed him in my wet desire.
His other arm pulled me to him so tightly I could scarcely breathe – it was exactly as I had so many times imagined; being held, being crushed by his longing, feeling so safe, so alive, so whole.
His hot breath was on my neck and I threw my head back and closed my eyes, taking in every sensation; his touch, his warmth, his musky earthy aroma mixed with the spice of his cologne, the roughness of his stubble, the wetness of his lips and tongue as the tip of it ran down my neck and settled into the shallow depression at the base.
I shuddered. I felt tears of joy welling up in my eyes as all I had ever dreamed of was suddenly real.
I felt him invade my body with his fingers. I wanted to merge with him, to become one with him but having him inside me, I knew, was all that I could hope for. I wanted more than just his hand there; and I knew he wanted it too.
