Dreamy Teacher

Seeing him rocketed my heart into my throat, the same as all those years ago. He looked different in the details: shaggier hair, a tattoo that either hadn’t been there before (or covered by shirtsleeves in the classroom) but the tight arse, slim waist and hard, broad shoulders, were the same, even ten years later. Back then, as a shy sixteen year old, his encouraging my daily piano practice at school embarrassed me beyond belief. My cheeks remained reddened at the thought of him, even after I left school, though the reason why evolved. I wasn’t used to male attention, and certainly not that of a beautiful, fully grown man, without the teenage silliness present in even the coolest of my peers.

But that was back then— I moulted that skin, to become a journalist, barging backstage to interview an up and coming band. Of which he— my dreamy teacher, the cause of frenetic practise to please him,the subject of many a breath stopping late night fantasy— was the drummer.

“Hi, I’m here to do the interview? I’m Amy from Crossbeam.” At least my voice sounded confident. He turned, and fixed his eyes, stunningly blue even in this low light, on mine. His eyebrows raised a fraction, and his face cracked into a lopsided grin.

“Hey, I know you! Mrs Bach!” His old, old nickname for me, given in honour of the hours I’d spent trying to wrap my fingers around the man from Eisenach’s fugues. My heart lurched again, seemingly loose from its proper moorings. He extended his hand, clasping mine briefly, then called the rest of the band over.

“Guys, this is one of my pupils from back in the day, here to do the interview. I am so fucking old.”

“That’s a good wee pull quote,” I said, pulling out my dictaphone.

The interview went smoothly. The band said nothing untoward. Evidently they had become enough of a big deal to have been given some media training. Once I’d finished, they zoomed off to get ready for the show. But Mr Chester (or Mike, as I tried to remember to call him) stayed with me.

“You know, it’s really good to see you again. It’s students like you who helped me cope with being a teacher.”

“Um... thanks.” I felt myself blush, every bit as red as teenage me. “You were definitely one of my favourite teachers. You showed me that being an adult didn’t have to be absolutely fucking miserable.” I felt humiliated as soon as it came out of my mouth, but he didn’t seem shocked. In fact he looked like he understood.

“Well, I need to get going. Are you staying for the show?”

“I don’t have a ticket.”

“Fuck that. You can watch from behind the stage. Got a press pass or anything?”

“Not exactly...” My magazine was somewhat of a fly-by-night operation.

“Well... if anyone asks, just say you’re my girlfriend.” He smirked and pulled me in for a hug. It felt... I don’t even have words. I felt like a desert being rained on for the first time in a decade, only more so. Soon blood not only suffused my cheeks, but every part of me. I wondered if he could feel the changes he was causing, which made me blush more. Then he pulled back, and softly kissed my forehead. “If anyone asks, I’ll back you up.” He walked off, waving cheerily. I just stood there dumbly.

But soon, their set started. The frontman strode on, arms up, charisma leaking from every orifice, but I had only eyes for the lean, dark man behind the drumkit. He wore a short sleeved checked shirt over a white tank top. He soon dispensed with the former. His sweaty, tattooed arms gleamed in the harsh stage lights, the light flickering with his movements, ranging from a hummingbird flutter on the snare to Thor-like strikes on the toms. I knew I should be taking in the whole band, making notes to round out my interview, but I couldn’t. Certainly the other musicians were more than competent, but I had eyes only for him. Seeing the band in reverse like this, with the drummer to the fore, made them seem like they were there to back him.

Photo credit: Amir Kuckovic

Having his rhythm pulse through me felt unutterably erotic.

When they had finished— after an encore, before which he swigged water from a bottle I handed him, and peeled off his sweat soaked vest— he bounced over to me. “We’re going round to Pete’s for some bevvies. Coming?” This one hour assignment had turned into an all night affair, but I had no complaints.

Back at Pete’s, we all had a few drinks, and more than a few spliffs, rolled by the bassist’s nimble fingers. Mike pretended to be shocked when I put one to my lips, then raised his eyebrows, impressed, when I blew out a couple of smoke rings. I smiled and passed to him. He inhaled deeply and breathed out to the ceiling, leaning back on the sofa cushions, his body sprawling into my space. I tried to screw my journalist head back on, taking mental notes on the guitarist’s self absorption, the bassist’s quiet virtuosity, and the way the singer clearly thought he had me entranced. Some bands seem to just love fitting the stereotypes. But the man beside me had my full attention. Together with the weed smoke and the way he magnetised my focus to him, I doubted I’d have any memories beyond what I had on the dictaphone to write my article with.

It was late, and I had a temping shift the next day. I excused myself.

“Where do you stay?” Mike said. I named an area of the city. “Want to share a cab?”

I told the taxi driver my location, and then Mike added his. He slumped against me, humming their encore song into my shoulder. I put my arm round him and smiled. Somehow, I didn’t think he would be making it to his house.

“So how did you end up here?” he said into my flesh, his voice sticky with smoke and whisky and... lust? His hand had found its way to my hip.

“It’s a long story.” I steeled myself. “Want to come up for a bit and hear it?”

His head lifted off my shoulder, his face a request for confirmation. I nodded, barely, and took his hand. I pushed the fare through the taxi driver’s window and thanked him; then I led my prize up the stairs before he could ask any questions about the second destination.

“Amy.” he said, as we entered. “I’m not sure about this.”

“Not sure about what?” I opened my eyes wide and fluttered my lashes. “I thought I was going to tell you how I ended up in journalism?” He glanced at his feet and chuckled,  then looked around taking in my studio flat. It’s tiny, but all my own.

“Nice place.”

“I like living alone. Want anything to drink?” I went to boil the kettle, feeling the need for hydration rather than more intoxicants. I threw a peppermint tea bag in a mug and looked over at him expectantly.

“Uh, water. Thanks.” Where was his rock n’ roll swagger now? I had to put him at ease quickly, if I planned to fulfill the dream of a lifetime.

“Mike. I get it, I really do. I used to be your pupil. There’s a barrier in your head. But I’m twenty six now. I have grey hairs and back pain. I’m sure you knew I fancied you back then. But now I’m old enough to do something about it. You didn’t invite yourself up here; I did.”

“I thought you were going to tell me how you got into journalism?” He grinned at me wolfishly. I walked across the room with my tea and his water and sat next to him on the sofa.

“Well. I did a degree in...” He leaned over and softly kissed me, his silky lips barely making contact with mine. My hands twined themselves through his hair. My palms felt hungry for the feel of his skin. His fingers stroked up my belly to my tits, stroking my nipples, then withdrawing, touching, withdrawing... I moaned through his lips, and swung a leg over him, connecting my core with his through our clothing. He gently parted his lips from mine and laughed.

“You like that?”

“Evidently.”

Photo credit: Karyn Cullen

I had worn rather a low cut top, which made it easy for him to pull it down, exposing me. His mouth began to tease my nipple, flickering his tongue, squeezing lightly with his teeth, before pulling back to kiss my lips again. My tortured nipple stood out, the wetness from his mouth chilling it and making it even harder. My hips began to move against his. I felt the hardness I had prompted below me, grinding on my pussy, which made me near-mad with lust. I pushed his head back down to my nipple, as guttural, animal noises ripped from my throat. Usually, I’m the tease, the one who has the male begging for the next morsel of relief. But I had waited ten years for this. I didn’t have the patience.

“I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to promise not to kill me.” I looked down at his flushed face, into his dilated pupils. “Are you sure about this. We’re both pretty high...”

“Mike... I’ve been thinking of this night for ten years. It’s definitely not just the weed.” He seemed satisfied by that, and got back to alternately teasing my nipples, leaving me guessing as to whether he would bite, or blow, or suck... I began to feel my clothes as unbearable constraints, and stood to ease them off. He watched intently, but not as closely as I watched him. His charisma made him seem to occupy a larger space and draw more attention than a normal man. I didn’t blame my seventeen year old self for being maddened by him. I owed him a great deal (not counting my Grade 8 Merit pass in piano). His aura had wound itself around my life, exhorting me to push a little harder and further in everything I did, always with my goal in mind. Perhaps, this evening, I would begin to repay him a little.

I removed all my clothes, but when I began to pull my underwear towards the floor, he signalled to leave them on. I nodded, then leaned over, unbuttoning his shirt, which he shrugged off, then knelt between his knees and unbuttoned his jeans. I looked at his face; at first he seemed impassive, then he gave me that damned lopsided grin. I smiled back and pulled them down a little, at once releasing his hardened, precum-moistened cock. I touched my tongue to the tip, my eyes still riveted to his. His lips had parted a little, and his breath had quickened. “Let’s see how much he likes being teased.” I thought.

I swirled my tongue round the head, collecting every salty-tangy drop of his fluids, then engulfed him in my mouth. He pulled his jeans down further, letting me stroke his balls and allowing an experimental finger beneath. My eyes had closed, making the situation seem a little more unreal. Here was my hot-ass teacher, on my sofa, and here I was in front of him, delivering the best blowjob of my life so far. I dismissed my uncertainly of reality as unimportant, wetting my finger in my mouth and stroking round the rim of his arse. I could feel him clenching and releasing, and mirrored the rhythm with my cunt. I sucked him lazily. I didn’t want him to cum, not yet.

I pulled away, and took his hand. I led him to the bed, where he took off his jeans entirely and peeled away his socks.

“See how wet you’ve made me?” I guided his hand to my cunt, allowing him to slip his blunt fingers between my lips. His fingers wandered inside me, curling in and pushing against my G spot. I spasmed around them, and weakened, moving from a kneeling position to a supine one. His musician’s fingers stroked up, under the soaked fabric of my underwear, to where my clit throbbed, echoing the hardness of his cock. He pulled his hand away, and I moaned with frustration. He licked my juices off his fingers, taking his cock in his hand and wanking to my taste. Then he kissed me again, not teasingly like before, but fucking my mouth with his tongue, smearing his pussy flavoured lips over mine, mingling my juice with his precum in my mouth. Then he returned to my core, pulling my underwear roughly down my thighs and sucking hard on my clit, before rolling his tongue over it. I felt his fingers inside me again, first the index, then the first two, then the index and pinkie... he experimented with combinations while his tongue laved over me.

Then, he started to tease my nether orifice just as I had done to his, circling it with a finger damp with my own juices before slipping one in, then another. My arse is so sensitive it’s like flicking a light switch inside me; before long I was cumming in his face. He kept licking and finger fucking me until my convulsions subsided, then knelt back, grabbed his jeans and pulled a condom from the pocket. He sheathed himself and placed his tip at my entrance. He filled me slowly, my eyes closing with bliss before opening wide at shock at how full I felt. It’s odd how it can be hard to judge the girth of a man before feeling him inside.

“So... thick...” I managed to gasp, before he started fucking me properly. At first his pace was leisurely, but soon his hips were bucking wildly as he fucked his way to his own orgasm. I grabbed his bum and pulled him into me deeper, hungry for that feeling of being stretched almost too wide. It didn’t take him long. His face looked almost pained as he came, my cunt tingling deliciously as though his orgasm was being passed nerve to nerve.

He lay on me for a long moment, panting, then rolled off to lie at my side. Our hands found each other.