Oh, Professor
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Original - Misc › Non-Fiction/True Stories/Autobiographical
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,121
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Category:
Original - Misc › Non-Fiction/True Stories/Autobiographical
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,121
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of non fiction. Where possible - and where appropriate - permission has been granted from any people or their descendants to be included in this story. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Oh, Professor
I lie in the pitch dark of my room-my tomb, my sanctuary.
I see snippets of him, shadows of a fantasy. Those lovely pale fingertips soothe tenderly upon the soft velvet of my belly coaxing me to shivers.
I dream that I'm teaching him piano and there is another flash: my hands fisted in that blindingly bright hair. I run my fingers through it, clutch it, like the softest feathers of the softest bird.His fingers caress the keys, he is lost in the music. His bright eyes are closed and his long lashes tickle his cheeks. My fingers tighten in his golden locks and pull his head back, baring that proud neck to me.
My lips move to trace that devine line in his neck. They hover just above the pulse, pounding like that of a drugged man. Drunk on the mixture of the beauty of his music and the fire of my fingers, and the teasing wind of my breathing on his raised flesh.
I linger a moment longer, stretching him, baiting him. I slowly release his hair and his head lolls to the side. My tongue sneaks out and teases, followed by tiny kisses upon the tender flesh of his earlobe. My hands explore his strong chest, fingers slipping into that crisp burgundy shirt to relish the warm, fluid muscles that flow with his music.
It's not enough. I want more of him, I want to roll around in his warmth like a spoiled cat. I nuzzle his neck and he sighs a little. My fingers loosen the top two buttons of his shirt, my slide to hover over his mouth.
His fingers are slipping on the keys, marring the perfection of the music.
I hesitate and move my lips on his slightly. He misses another couple of notes.
"Did I tell you to stop playing?" I hiss the words into his mouth.
"No..."
"No. Focus, darling." My fingernails slide on his flesh and he inhales sharply.
I kiss him softly, slowly, just a taste.
My fingernails rake down his arms lightly, tickling him. They rest on his hands and I guide his fingers to the right keys. We're playing together, moving as one with our music...
I wake moaning quietly, to a black room, to the cold, familiar realization that I am alone, woken by my own imagination. The memory of his fingertips seared upon my flesh.
I will see him tomorrow, he will attempt to seduce me, I will ignore him. And so it goes, he, my teacher in the day, my pupil in the night....
I see snippets of him, shadows of a fantasy. Those lovely pale fingertips soothe tenderly upon the soft velvet of my belly coaxing me to shivers.
I dream that I'm teaching him piano and there is another flash: my hands fisted in that blindingly bright hair. I run my fingers through it, clutch it, like the softest feathers of the softest bird.His fingers caress the keys, he is lost in the music. His bright eyes are closed and his long lashes tickle his cheeks. My fingers tighten in his golden locks and pull his head back, baring that proud neck to me.
My lips move to trace that devine line in his neck. They hover just above the pulse, pounding like that of a drugged man. Drunk on the mixture of the beauty of his music and the fire of my fingers, and the teasing wind of my breathing on his raised flesh.
I linger a moment longer, stretching him, baiting him. I slowly release his hair and his head lolls to the side. My tongue sneaks out and teases, followed by tiny kisses upon the tender flesh of his earlobe. My hands explore his strong chest, fingers slipping into that crisp burgundy shirt to relish the warm, fluid muscles that flow with his music.
It's not enough. I want more of him, I want to roll around in his warmth like a spoiled cat. I nuzzle his neck and he sighs a little. My fingers loosen the top two buttons of his shirt, my slide to hover over his mouth.
His fingers are slipping on the keys, marring the perfection of the music.
I hesitate and move my lips on his slightly. He misses another couple of notes.
"Did I tell you to stop playing?" I hiss the words into his mouth.
"No..."
"No. Focus, darling." My fingernails slide on his flesh and he inhales sharply.
I kiss him softly, slowly, just a taste.
My fingernails rake down his arms lightly, tickling him. They rest on his hands and I guide his fingers to the right keys. We're playing together, moving as one with our music...
I wake moaning quietly, to a black room, to the cold, familiar realization that I am alone, woken by my own imagination. The memory of his fingertips seared upon my flesh.
I will see him tomorrow, he will attempt to seduce me, I will ignore him. And so it goes, he, my teacher in the day, my pupil in the night....