Private Lessons
folder
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
13
Views:
25,920
Reviews:
59
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
13
Views:
25,920
Reviews:
59
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Chapter Two - Voice Projection
WEEK TWO – VOICE PROJECTION
The next week dragged by too slowly.
Every day, I spent my time daydreaming about Mr. C. While I was mindlessly filing or copying during my boring temp job, I was humming one of his songs. When I had downtime, I would work on an audition monologue and pretend that I was talking to him. One time, I had spent a half hour just staring at my screen saver, lost in a romantic daze, not even knowing what I was doing.
After work, I forced myself to go to the New York Sports Club and work out whether I wanted to or not. After all, even if I was never going to be perfect, I should at least attempt to get in shape. I was cursed from birth with a pudgy stomach that never seemed to get flat, no matter how many sit-ups I did. I took whatever class was available at the time. Yoga, toning, aerobics, belly dancing, whatever.
During the hellish rush hour traffic home, I zoned out into an erotic fantasy world as I listened to my CD player. This was actually a nice change of pace from my usual worries about being bombed by a terrorist. I had been temping only four blocks away from the World Trade Center when it fell on September 11th. Never will I forget the sight of seeing only one tower standing, the other one having collapsed into rubble and white ash drifting in the sky. After that day, I seemed to suffer from permanent paranoia, sure that when the next attack came that I would be at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was actually a relief to have something else to think about as I rode the 9 train to Chelsea.
Rather, something else to obsess about.
The fantasy would be a simple one. Next Sunday, he would ask to speak to me after class in private. Would I like a Frappucino at Starbucks? Over coffee, he would tell me about a few showbiz anecdotes. He would take my hand and say that he found me very attractive. Would I like to spend the night with him? Voulez vous couchez avec mo ice soir? We would ride a taxi together to his fancy apartment on Fifth Avenue. I would never go hungry again as every night I would have caviar and champagne. He would help me with my career. And the rest of my days would be spent in one big fuckfest with Mr. C.
Heaven on earth.
Inevitably, I would go into my small rathole of a bedroom in the cramped brownstone of Chelsea. I would shut the door, careful not to disturb my cat-loving cigarette-smoking roommate across the hall.
I would throw myself under the covers of my bed, remove my clothes and rub myself into a relaxing orgasm.
But the craving for him was still there, ever present.
Every night, I worked on Time After Time for at least thirty minutes. Luckily, no neighbors complained. Sheila, my roommate, was very tolerant as long as it didn’t go on for too long. For some reason, my singing tended to bother her cat, Chauncey. Granted, the shabby two-bedroom apartment was not the most ideal place to rehearse. But it wasn’t easy to rent rehearsal space when you were flat broke all of the time, relying on the kindness of temp agencies and office assholes just to pay the rent.
Sunday finally came...at long last.
I volunteered to sing in class this time around. Not first. Jeez, I wasn’t that brave yet. But I did go second.
Mr. C looked delicious in a pair of khaki pants with a light blue button-down top. I must have spent an hour and a half that morning deciding on what I would wear. You can dress to show or you can dress to hide. I did a little of both. I work my green ribbed turtleneck that showed my breasts and waist off to full advantage. I wore a skirt that was so short it was a bit risqué. Although all of those step classes didn’t do a damned thing for my stomach, my legs were actually getting quite shapely. Speaking of my wretched flabby tummy, I wore a control top pair of underwear in an effort to hide the hated anatomy. And I grudgingly wore a pair of black flats, as was Mr. C’s dictum, who by the way, looked just as delicious this week as he did the last.
Secure in the knowledge that Mr C was no threat but my supportive teacher just like he had always been in my mind, I was relaxed and totally in tune with the song from beginning to end.
The class gave good feedback. Mr. C was not quite as enthusiastic, nodding but not smiling.
“A marked improvement, Miss Spencer. You take direction well. Just one matter. Come with me.”
I felt like a squirrel cornered by a cat.
Mr C walked toward the center of the stage and gestured for me to join him. He took my arm and led me toward the side of the room. Oh, God, he’s touching me!
I felt light perspiration on my brow. Was I actually shaking?
Have I died yet?
His hand wrapped lightly around my upper arm.
“Now put your hands against the wall.”
Oh, your wish is my command, cruel master...
I felt the cold black painted bricks against my palms as I placed my arms out in front of me at shoulder’s length. His large hands pressed hard near the bottom of my rib cage. I could not help but think just how close his long elegant fingers were to the vicinity of my breasts. And in front of all of these people too.
Damn, this was getting sort of kinky!
“This is an exercise to help you breathe deeply through your diaphragm and sustain your notes,” he said. “Relax your neck and shoulders. Stand up straight. Now push against my hands when you inhale.”
I did so, wondering if he could see my nipples harden through my thin green turtleneck. I felt all achy and suddenly wanted to use the bathroom.
“Now sing out the first word of your song, exhale and push your diaphragm against my hand.”
“Tiiiimmmmmeee...”
I was daydreaming about a different kind of diaphragm pushing against another choice body part of his.
“PUSH HARD!” he ordered.
Trying to focus on the matter at hand, I pushed my diaphragm out against the large hands of my stern task master, feeling rather dizzy as I did so.
“Good. Now inhale.”
I inhaled. He smelled of coffee and something sweet-smelling like soap or shampoo.
“Again. Breathe through your mouth this time.”
I inhaled deeply though my diaphragm again.
Mr. C’s hands pressed hard against my ribs. He was so strong that he could smash my chest into bits if he wanted to. And I became aware of how tall he was. I thought of the big bearish weight of him on top of me, resting between my open thighs.
“Tiiiimmmmmeee...”
“Good. Again.”
I did it again. Press me, baby, press me. I would do anything he ordered. Anything.
“Good. Now practice these exercises every day when you rehearse. Ten repetitions. And bring in a new song next week.”
Rather disappointed that the close encounter was over so quickly, I returned to my seat.
“Okay.”
When I went to the bathroom during our ten minute break in the middle of class, I realized that my panties were absolutely soaked. How would I survive the following ten weeks without going crazy?
The next week dragged by too slowly.
Every day, I spent my time daydreaming about Mr. C. While I was mindlessly filing or copying during my boring temp job, I was humming one of his songs. When I had downtime, I would work on an audition monologue and pretend that I was talking to him. One time, I had spent a half hour just staring at my screen saver, lost in a romantic daze, not even knowing what I was doing.
After work, I forced myself to go to the New York Sports Club and work out whether I wanted to or not. After all, even if I was never going to be perfect, I should at least attempt to get in shape. I was cursed from birth with a pudgy stomach that never seemed to get flat, no matter how many sit-ups I did. I took whatever class was available at the time. Yoga, toning, aerobics, belly dancing, whatever.
During the hellish rush hour traffic home, I zoned out into an erotic fantasy world as I listened to my CD player. This was actually a nice change of pace from my usual worries about being bombed by a terrorist. I had been temping only four blocks away from the World Trade Center when it fell on September 11th. Never will I forget the sight of seeing only one tower standing, the other one having collapsed into rubble and white ash drifting in the sky. After that day, I seemed to suffer from permanent paranoia, sure that when the next attack came that I would be at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was actually a relief to have something else to think about as I rode the 9 train to Chelsea.
Rather, something else to obsess about.
The fantasy would be a simple one. Next Sunday, he would ask to speak to me after class in private. Would I like a Frappucino at Starbucks? Over coffee, he would tell me about a few showbiz anecdotes. He would take my hand and say that he found me very attractive. Would I like to spend the night with him? Voulez vous couchez avec mo ice soir? We would ride a taxi together to his fancy apartment on Fifth Avenue. I would never go hungry again as every night I would have caviar and champagne. He would help me with my career. And the rest of my days would be spent in one big fuckfest with Mr. C.
Heaven on earth.
Inevitably, I would go into my small rathole of a bedroom in the cramped brownstone of Chelsea. I would shut the door, careful not to disturb my cat-loving cigarette-smoking roommate across the hall.
I would throw myself under the covers of my bed, remove my clothes and rub myself into a relaxing orgasm.
But the craving for him was still there, ever present.
Every night, I worked on Time After Time for at least thirty minutes. Luckily, no neighbors complained. Sheila, my roommate, was very tolerant as long as it didn’t go on for too long. For some reason, my singing tended to bother her cat, Chauncey. Granted, the shabby two-bedroom apartment was not the most ideal place to rehearse. But it wasn’t easy to rent rehearsal space when you were flat broke all of the time, relying on the kindness of temp agencies and office assholes just to pay the rent.
Sunday finally came...at long last.
I volunteered to sing in class this time around. Not first. Jeez, I wasn’t that brave yet. But I did go second.
Mr. C looked delicious in a pair of khaki pants with a light blue button-down top. I must have spent an hour and a half that morning deciding on what I would wear. You can dress to show or you can dress to hide. I did a little of both. I work my green ribbed turtleneck that showed my breasts and waist off to full advantage. I wore a skirt that was so short it was a bit risqué. Although all of those step classes didn’t do a damned thing for my stomach, my legs were actually getting quite shapely. Speaking of my wretched flabby tummy, I wore a control top pair of underwear in an effort to hide the hated anatomy. And I grudgingly wore a pair of black flats, as was Mr. C’s dictum, who by the way, looked just as delicious this week as he did the last.
Secure in the knowledge that Mr C was no threat but my supportive teacher just like he had always been in my mind, I was relaxed and totally in tune with the song from beginning to end.
The class gave good feedback. Mr. C was not quite as enthusiastic, nodding but not smiling.
“A marked improvement, Miss Spencer. You take direction well. Just one matter. Come with me.”
I felt like a squirrel cornered by a cat.
Mr C walked toward the center of the stage and gestured for me to join him. He took my arm and led me toward the side of the room. Oh, God, he’s touching me!
I felt light perspiration on my brow. Was I actually shaking?
Have I died yet?
His hand wrapped lightly around my upper arm.
“Now put your hands against the wall.”
Oh, your wish is my command, cruel master...
I felt the cold black painted bricks against my palms as I placed my arms out in front of me at shoulder’s length. His large hands pressed hard near the bottom of my rib cage. I could not help but think just how close his long elegant fingers were to the vicinity of my breasts. And in front of all of these people too.
Damn, this was getting sort of kinky!
“This is an exercise to help you breathe deeply through your diaphragm and sustain your notes,” he said. “Relax your neck and shoulders. Stand up straight. Now push against my hands when you inhale.”
I did so, wondering if he could see my nipples harden through my thin green turtleneck. I felt all achy and suddenly wanted to use the bathroom.
“Now sing out the first word of your song, exhale and push your diaphragm against my hand.”
“Tiiiimmmmmeee...”
I was daydreaming about a different kind of diaphragm pushing against another choice body part of his.
“PUSH HARD!” he ordered.
Trying to focus on the matter at hand, I pushed my diaphragm out against the large hands of my stern task master, feeling rather dizzy as I did so.
“Good. Now inhale.”
I inhaled. He smelled of coffee and something sweet-smelling like soap or shampoo.
“Again. Breathe through your mouth this time.”
I inhaled deeply though my diaphragm again.
Mr. C’s hands pressed hard against my ribs. He was so strong that he could smash my chest into bits if he wanted to. And I became aware of how tall he was. I thought of the big bearish weight of him on top of me, resting between my open thighs.
“Tiiiimmmmmeee...”
“Good. Again.”
I did it again. Press me, baby, press me. I would do anything he ordered. Anything.
“Good. Now practice these exercises every day when you rehearse. Ten repetitions. And bring in a new song next week.”
Rather disappointed that the close encounter was over so quickly, I returned to my seat.
“Okay.”
When I went to the bathroom during our ten minute break in the middle of class, I realized that my panties were absolutely soaked. How would I survive the following ten weeks without going crazy?