Private Lessons

WEEK FOUR – PREPARATION

I spent the next week in a gray state of depression.

That beautiful Irish voice tortured me with those words: Number One Fan...Number One Fan...Number One Fan...

Everything was ruined. Things had been going so well. And now he probably thought I was just a pathetic loser. I had to distance myself from him. The pain was just too intense. It was not healthy to feel this way. It was bad enough to be obsessed with a star, but when it became a sort of dysfunctional teacher/student relationship, it was even more unhealthy.

Being a classic movies lover, I had read my share of Marilyn Monroe biographies. Some of them claim that she became so dependent on her acting teacher, Lee Strasberg, that she lost all objectivity and it destroyed her career and what was left of her ego. One minute she was hanging on every word of Strasberg’s like he was God. The next, she was lying dead and naked from a suicidal overdose. I could picture myself in her place wrapped with a sheet, an empty bottle of pills beside the bed and my telephone receiver off of the hook, dead as a doornail. Funny, I couldn’t imagine myself as a blonde though.

I just had to think about something else for a while which was hard to do since I had probably thought about Mr. C at least once every day for the last ten years.

He was not God. He was just a man. And a bastard at that.

So out of sheer bullheadedness, I did not practice my singing lessons once all week. I did not do my diaphragmatic exercises. I didn’t even work out. Instead, I went shopping for clothes that I couldn’t afford. I went on a Turner Classics Movie film jag. I hung out in Barnes & Noble for hours. I did anything but rehearse for class.

I even stayed up until 2:00 AM on Saturday night, watching one of the ‘Thin Man’ movies on TCM. And I paid the price when my alarm went off at 9:00 AM after I had pressed the ‘snooze’ button one too many times.

Rolling out of the bed, I decided that I would not even make an effort today. I would be just like all of the others in class. I threw on a pair of jeans and a raggedy plaid shirt that completely hid my figure. I put on very little makeup. I wore my workout shoes. I grabbed my sheet music and headed for the subway station.

I still went over the words of my song though. I was not so uncaring that I would wait until the very last moment to go over the words, although I certainly knew my share of students who did that all of the time. As I stared at some indecipherable scribbling of graffiti on the window of the train, I went through the words, whispering them out loud.

“My ship has sails that are made of silk, the decks are trimmed with gold and of spice and jam...”

Fuck! That wasn’t right. It was ‘jam and spice’. It was imperative that I get that part right as the next lyric rhymed with it.

“And of jam and spice, there’s a paradise in the hold...”

Good thing I was at least rehearsing this much. Mr. C would crucify me if I got that simple lyric wrong.

Not only was I not early this time, but I was the last one to enter the class. Not quite late, but almost.

Mr. C glared at me as I sat down.

“Nice of you to join us, Miss Spencer.”

“Sorry,” I smiled with a shrug.

He perused my appearance with visible disdain.

I did not volunteer to go first. In fact, I waited until the very end of class to get up.

The problem was that I couldn’t get into the song this time. Not even playing my little mind tricks worked. I just felt like I was going through the motions.

“My ship has sails that are made of silk, the decks are trimmed with gold and of spice and jam...”

Fuck. Fuck! FUCK! I DID NOT JUST DO THAT!!!

All of the sudden, I felt like throwing up.

“Sorry, can I start again?”

Mr. C looked not only disappointed. He seemed furiously angry with me. His face was so red that it looked rather sunburned. He scowled coldly, his arms crossed against his chest as he leaned back in his chair.

“Please do.”

I went through the song again, still feeling nothing but at least getting the words right.

When I sat in the hot seat, none of the students volunteered a comment. Killing me with quiet kindness.

“I don’t think I need to say anything, do I, Miss Spencer?”

“Sorry,” I said sheepishly, quite ready to die in shame. “It’s been a hard week.”

“Do you think that Andrew Lloyd Webber would give a flying fuck if you had a hard week, Miss Spencer?”

The room was deadly quiet. I wished that I were anywhere else but here at this moment.

“Well, do you?!”

“Um...no...probably not...”

“Do you think a casting director or an agent will care? Will an audience care? An audience who paid at least $50 a pop just to hear you fuck up their favorite song? But it wouldn’t matter because they wouldn’t be able to hear you anyway. Would they?”

I wanted to cry.

“No.”

“I can’t hear you, Miss Spencer.”

“No,” I said more loudly.

“Please remain after class, Miss Spencer. I wish to speak with you in private.”

So this is what Hell felt like. My idol, Mr. C, was about to banish me out into the cold for being such a monumental fuck up. How would I be able to endure the next five minutes? How would I be able to look in the mirror again? I worked so hard to get into this class and now I was going to be unceremoniously thrown out of it.

Some of the classmates took their time gathering their belongings, hesitant to leave the torrid drama that was about to unfold in the basement theater in Tribeca. But at last, they were all gone.

We were alone. I was still seated on the hot seat. Mr C was still at his desk.

Speak, damn you...get it over with...say something!

“I expect my students to work hard, Miss Spencer. I believe I made that clear on the day of the first class. Did I not?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“What do you mean ‘what’?” I asked with confusion.

“You will address me with respect, Miss Spencer.”

Christ, this was too much! He was taking the overpowering guru teacher act just a bit too far for my taste!

“Yes, sir!” I sniped bitchily, making it clear that I meant no respect with that word whatsoever. “Is that what you want?”

His brown eyes narrowed.

“Shall I have you removed from the class, Miss Spencer? I can do that quite easily, you know.”

“You’d do that to me?!” I asked, outraged. “Because I messed up the words with one song I sang in one class, you’d have me kicked out?!”

Mr. C pulled out a sheet of notebook paper covered front to back with handwritten names.

“You see this, Miss Spencer?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” I sighed out with disgust.

“Do you know what this is?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s a waiting list of names of all the people on standby for this class. There is nothing to stop me from saying that you do not have the appropriate talent and discipline necessary to remain here. Do you think that the admissions office will question me about that, should I choose to do it?”

I knew that they would not. He was Mr. C, a famous star of the Broadway stage. This class was probably making the acting school more money than it had seen in years. Of course he would get whatever he wanted.

I said nothing, feeling like I was just waiting to be escorted to my own execution.

“I shall give you a second chance, Miss Spencer, if you do everything I say without question.”

What was that? A glimmer of hope? I waited breathlessly for him to continue.

“Lean over my desk, Miss Spencer.”

“What?” I asked dumbly, not believing my ears.

“Lean...over...my...desk...”

He placed the waiting list down on the table top emphatically, making his point.

What the hell was this? The principal’s office in high school? I should report him for sexual harassment. I should call him an asshole. I should get a refund for the class. And then I should throw away all of my Mr. C paraphernalia so I would never see his face or hear his wretched voice ever again. I should blight him from my life!

As if I were no longer my own person, I walked over to his desk and leaned over.

Mr C stood up from his chair and circled around me. And then I sensed him standing behind me, his breath very close to my ear. His large hands reached for my diaphragm. But they were underneath my shirt and on the bare flesh of my midriff.

“I don’t like this shirt, Miss Spencer. You have a beautiful body and should not cover it up in such an ugly way.”

My anger dissolved into a state of hot wet desire. Mr. C. thought I had a beautiful body! Me...with my too-full curves and poochy stomach.

“Inhale...”

I inhaled, breathing through my diaphragm although I knew that this wasn’t what this particular exercise was about.

His hands moved slowly up from my ribs on to my breasts. The world seemed to stand still.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a creamy pair of tits, Miss Spencer?”

“No, sir.” I could honestly say no one had ever said that to me before.

“Well, you do. A nice handful and very fuckable. From that first day I saw you in class, I couldn’t get my eyes off of them.”

Oh, no man had ever affected me like this. He was being so coarse and yet saying and doing all of the right things.He massaged my breasts with a sureness that was unsettling. As he pinched my nipples through the silk cloth of my bra, I ached sharply between my legs.

“Take off that ugly shirt, Miss Spencer.”

I felt confused, halfway desirous and halfway humilated. While I had dreamed of being intimate with Mr. C for most of my adult life, I wasn’t sure I wanted it this way. It felt so dirty, this kinky domination game, this forced striptease. But I was too far gone to turn back. Part of it was pure sexual arousal, part of it a sick curiosity of what he was going to do to me next.

I unbuttoned and lowered the shirt, shivering as the cold air of the basement caused goose bumps on my bare arms. There was a soft whooshing sound as it hit the floor.

“Hands back on the desk,” he ordered.

I obeyed him. I was free to leave, free to run right out of this room. And yet I might as well have been chained to the desk. And he knew that. Somehow he knew it.

“Good little girl...” he crooned as he lowered the cups of my bra so that my bare breasts were resting on top of them. Again, he played with my nipples, pinching and flicking at them with his fingertips. I squirmed and moaned softly, shifting my body weight from one foot to the other. The pressure in my pussy was intense. I needed to have him inside of me so much.

God, I never wanted to get fucked so badly! Not ever!

I’d had boyfriends in my time. Three of them, in fact. I’d had sex with all of them but never really saw the big deal about it. They always seemed to enjoy it more than I did. And it was usually over fairly fast.

But this older man, this idol who I worshipped, made me feel like someone else entirely. I thought of how I must have looked wearing only my jeans and bra. Normally, I would have been embarrassed and repulsed. But I felt horribly sexy. Not sexy in a sweet cute sort of way, but in a hot pornographic sort of way. It was completely foreign and scary...and exhilarating...

“You also have beautiful legs,” he whispered. I tried to listen to him, but it was difficult since his hands were driving me crazy. “I want you to wear skirts in my class from now on, Miss Spencer. And no underwear, understand?”

“Yes...” I moaned, pushing my hips back against him. I needed contact. I needed more skin. More and more and more...

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” I gasped softly. I was rewarded with a squeeze to both breasts.

“You like my hands on your breasts, don’t you?”

God, wasn’t it obvious?! I was melting like butter.

“Yes, sir. Very much, sir. Very very much...”

“Remove your jeans, Miss Spencer.”

I blindly obeyed, no longer caring about what was right and wrong. I just wanted him to touch me.

“And the panties.”

The panties joined my jeans down at a heap at my feet.

“What a sweet ass you have, Miss Spencer.”

“Mmm...” I moaned when his hands reached down to massage my buttocks.

“How many times are you supposed to repeat the breathing exercise in one session, Miss Spencer?”

“What?”

How could he be talking about singing at a time like this?

“How many sets of diaphragmatic breathing are you supposed to do every day?”

“T-t-ten...”

“For each time that you did not do it, I am going to spank you, Miss Spencer. That will be your punishment. Then you’ll remember to do them from now on, won’t you?”

Oh, man, this was just too perverse! I only heard about this sort of stuff in the movies and in some of the erotica novels I kept stashed underneath my bed. While I found it wild and sexy in my fantasies, I wasn’t sure the reality was for me. I didn’t really like pain.

“I like you very much, Miss Spencer. I think you have so much potential in so many areas. But you must take risks as I told you before. You want to stay in my class, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I said honestly.

“You shall. But first you have to pay the price for your lack of artistic discipline. Will you take your punishment, Miss Spencer?”

I had to make a choice. It was one of those moments where I was at the fork in the road, the edge of the precipice, whatever cliché you prefer...

He was giving me an ‘out clause’, so to speak. I could leave his class and never come back but keep my dignity intact, what little of it was left anyway in this ignominious position.

“Yes, sir.”

I thought I heard a moan of satisfaction from behind me.

“Spread your legs widely apart, Miss Spencer.”

I swallowed dryly, widening my stance.

“Wider. I want to see all of that pretty pussy, all wet and pink and open.”

His dirty talk freaked me out and yet made me feel even more randy...if that was possible.

“You will keep your eyes looking down upon that waiting list on top of the desk, Miss Spencer, reminding you why you are being punished. You shall count with every spank, Miss Spencer. Starting now.”

THWACK! His bare hand slapped against my right buttock hard.

Try as I might, I could not hold back my scream after receiving the stinging slap. Obviously he had done this sort of thing before. Indeed, this was no dirty short story being read before masturbating. No, this was the real thing...and it hurt like a motherfucker!

“What was that?” he teased. “Did you say ‘one’?”

I felt his fingertips brush along the underside of my buttock.

“ONE!!...one...one...”

THWACK! Then his hand gave a stinging blow to my left buttock.

“OW...oooohh....TWO!”

THWACK! A sting to the underside of my right buttock.

I was out of breath already, practically clinging to the edge of the desk with my tense hands as if I were hanging off a cliff.

“THREE!”

THWACK! A sting to the underside of my left buttock.

“Four...”

Even though the sensitive skin of my backside was burning up with his slaps, I had somehow managed to regain control at least to the point where I was not shrieking. I could handle this. I could live through it. It was okay. He could get his jollies off by spanking me and then it would be all over with.

Then I heard the rustling sound of clothing.

Whoosh...THWACK!

This one had been different, much sharper and biting than the others.

“FU-UCK!!!” I screamed, unable to help myself, tears stinging at my eyes from the blinding pain.

This was no longer just a spanking but an out-and-out whipping! I dreaded the next lashing he would give me with his belt.

“I thought raising the stakes would make things a bit more interesting, don’t you agree?”

Whoosh...THWACK!

“Don’t forget to count, Miss Spencer.”

“F-f-five,” I sobbed, sniffling through the tears that I could not stop.

“Actually, it’s six.”

He stopped for a moment, rubbing and massaging my buttocks. God, his hands felt so good. I moved my hips, thrusting my pussy against the edge of the desk.

“None of that now, Miss Spencer.”

I almost moaned when his soothing hands left my flesh.

Whoosh...THWACK!

“AAAIIIYYYY!”

The bastard had whipped me right between the legs! I gripped onto the desk for dear life, certain I was going to faint at any second.

“What number?”

“SEVEN! You fucker...”

“That’s not very nice, Miss Spencer...”

Whoosh...THWACK! Belt on right buttock.

“EIGHT!”

Whoosh...THWACK! This time, he was cute, taking my pussy by surprise again.

“NNIIIYYY....NINE!” God, I burned and hurt all over!

Whoosh....THWACK!

“TEN!” He cruelly had aimed right at my exposed clit this time. The stimulation was too much. I was shaking with pure fuck-need.

“Please...” I begged, completely broken.

“Please what, Miss Spencer?”

I felt his long elegant fingers slide up into my pussy hole. Oh, God, he knew just how to do it! The friction of his fingers against me felt so good. He slid another finger into me, increasing the heavenly pressure.

“Would you like me to fuck you with my fingers, Miss Spencer?”

“Please...”

“Please, what?”

“Please fuck me,” I pleaded. “Anyway you want. Anything. Just fuck me...fuck me...”

With his fingers still inside of me, he reached around with his other hand and played with my clit, circling it and rubbing it and pinching it. He thrust his hand in me with a vigorous rhythm, making my hips bounce about as he did so. It was hard and brutal and just what I needed.

I felt a monster orgasm coming as sure as Christmas. And I knew I was going to come so hard that it was scary. I screamed and thrashed, flexing and tensing and opening my thighs as his relentless hands kept fucking away at me.

“See you next week, Miss Spencer.”

For some time, I remained there alone, my jeans and panties still on the floor and my boobs still hanging out from my bra, paralyzed with shock and afterglow. I had been through the most intense sexual experience ever...and Mr. C had never even taken his pants off!