A Dance for Him

by Richard, Lara

  Dad never recovered from it all. He basically - so I’ve gathered, from bits and pieces of information over the years - drank himself to death over the next few years.

  No, it’s not a very happy family history, and my grandparents aren’t very happy people either.

  To describe them as profoundly repressed would be an understatement …

  I’ve always wondered if that’s why I don’t really know what to do with myself outside of music. All those girls at school seemed to take to life so naturally, so blithely, whereas I’ve always shrunk from it. I don’t know why, perhaps I’m just afraid of being unhappy. It was safer and so much more comforting to lose myself in the world of sound, it’s the one thing that’s always been there for me.

  Perhaps that’s why I feel oddly comfortable with Maestro Moretti, as though I’d known him for a very long time, even though I’d never met him, even though I was so nervous about playing for him.

  Comfortable enough with him, certainly, to stare back into his eyes in those magical seconds …

  Although how could I not have - how could anybody not have.

  I’ll probably remember that gaze, and its effect on me, till the day I die. It was so strange and wonderful, and then there was that odd moment in which I felt like I was staring into my own eyes …

  I know he’s probably just casually flirting with me, and if I let him have my virginity, I probably won’t be anything more to him than his latest conquest - how could I compete with all the beautiful women whom he’s surrounded by on a regular basis?

  And yet I still want him.

  If anyone’s going to break my heart I’d much rather it be him than anybody else …

  CHAPTER THREE

  Well that was a crazy night.

  I swear it’s as though that pretty little slip of a girl has bewitched me or something.

  Jerking off after she left took the edge off for all of half an hour, and then my mind started wandering back to how she’d looked at me as I stood there holding her soft slender hand in mine, wondering if I’d imagined the slight tremor of her hand as she gently squeezed mine, wondering if I’d imagined the sweet smell of her excitement on the piano bench, wondering if I’d imagined the look in her eye.

  The look of desire, that is: wildly dilated pupils, eyes sparkling with excitement and half-hooded with lust.

  I’ve seen that look so many times before, and when combined with a change in breathing patterns, as it did with her, it’s never failed me when I’ve acted on it - it’s always meant that the woman’s panties are just about melting off, and all I’d have to do was to kiss her and she’d have been down on her knees in seconds unzipping my pants and worshipping my massive cock with her mouth before begging me to take her, use her, fuck her.

  Fuck, what wouldn’t I give to have that sweet little Evie begging to be pounded senseless by my dick. The shy ones are always the wildest, the dirtiest, not to mention that she totally comes across like a natural submissive …

  God, why can’t I stop thinking about her and what she would look like impaled on my cock and moaning from pleasure? I had to jerk off so many times yesterday it was like I was a horny teenager again.

  You’re a grown man of forty-one, Lorenzo, I keep saying to myself reprovingly, but then all I can think of by way of reply to my bloody superego is All the better to teach her about how good it feels to have a real man’s cock in her sweet little pussy.

  And honestly, she can’t be that innocent. Who could be these days. As much as it kills me to think of some other man - or boy, more likely - pawing at that rare, exquisite creature, more likely than not she’s had some experience, in one form or another.

  Although I’m willing to bet she probably hasn’t experienced the pleasure of being taken by a man who knows what he’s doing!

  No, she doesn’t have the assured sensuality of a woman who’s known all the pleasure that sex can provide.

  What she does have is that skittish, kittenish air of a girl who’s had some inkling of pleasure and wants more but hasn’t quite figured out how and where to get it yet.

  Though I think she now might have some idea of where she might like to get it ...

  And why not? I think I have something to teach her, and I don’t mean just how to play the Chopin sonata or whatever other music she’s brought with her.

  Besides, she’ll also have the good old classical music groupie thrill of getting to fuck the conductor, which, to be honest, is probably a big part of why she’s giving me those irresistible fuck-me eyes.

  It’s quite funny if understandable how women seem to gravitate to the alpha male with the stick, so predictable yet so inevitable, not that I’m complaining. Let’s just say that “I do like a man with a big stick ... Maestro” is a pick-up line I’ve heard more than once, usually accompanied by a flirtatious once-over with maybe a rather pointed focus on my crotch area.

  Fortunately I do have a, well, big stick, one which I wouldn’t mind showing to little Miss Evie ...

  Fuck, it’s going to be hard (ha!) to keep a straight face when she gets here, not when I’ve spent the last night jerking off to lurid fantasies of her in all sorts of positions and scenarios, fucked up against the wall in an alley somewhere, crouching on all fours in my bed with her legs spread to expose her sweet little pussy, riding my rock-hard cock so that I get to see her perfect tits bounce rhythmically as she takes her wanton pleasures, kneeling to receive a faceful or mouthful of my cum.

  Oh, how I’d like to make her my little cock-starved cumslut by the end of the summer. There’s something about her that is so eminently corruptible. A smart girl, a fast learner, what more can I say? ...

  Fuck, I’m such an old perv. Didn’t think I had it in me, but she just does something to me, I don’t know why, I haven’t felt this obsessively horny in a while …

  Oh God, it’s Aurelia calling, probably to announce her. And yes, so it is. “Send her up,” I say, trying not to sound too lascivious, though I can’t entirely conceal a slight tremor of excitement in my voice.

  This will be awkward - there’s an obscene tent in my pants right now, and while I’m sure she’s interested I think it might be a bit much to rub her face in it (ha!) so early in the game. Don’t want to freak her out altogether. That would be bad. I don’t need her thinking I’m some kind of crazed sex maniac. I mean, she might like it - you never know with the quiet ones - but I think it would be a bit much for a second meeting.

  Damn, I think I’m going to have to pick up a score again and carry it around in front of me. Maybe I should have jerked off one more time this morning …

  Oh, who am I kidding, it probably wouldn’t have made an iota of difference, it’s like she’s cast a spell on my cock or something.

  There she is, I hear that fairy-light footstep again, and then a timid knock on the door.

  So timid, I think. No, it definitely won’t do to greet her with a blatant hard-on. And I will myself to visualise everything I can think of that would cause the pressure in my dick to ease up, with only partial success.

  “Come in,” I say, and she does - in a barely-there white tie-top and a pair of very short shorts. She’s clearly not wearing a bra, her nipples are visibly poking through the thin material of her top.

  Who knows if she’s even wearing any panties under those tiny shorts? …

  My jaw drops as she enters, and all my efforts go to naught as my cock springs back to full attention …

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Oh God he’s staring at me so hungrily that I’m getting wet all over again. He’s got that strange, fixed smile on those sensual lips of his as well.

  It’s an intent, almost predatory smile, like he’s undressing me with his eyes, like he’s thinking of doing unspeakable things to me.

  Surely it can’t be that I’m imagining that just because I actually wish he would do all those unspeakable things to me, whatever they are? …

  Because I do so, so much want that. It’s simply not possi
ble to be in his presence without dreaming of surrendering completely to him …

  He offers me his hand to shake, and this time his grasp is warm, firm, commanding. “Hello, Evie,” he says, in that velvet voice of his as he looks me up and down with that darkly avid gaze.

  He could read the phone book in that voice and I’d still cream myself, so to hear him say my name, in that accent, in that smooth, slightly suggestive tone …

  Well, it’s a good thing I decided to wear a thong after all, if I’d just gone commando I’d have soaked my shorts by now.

  As it is, I’m not sure that they’re not going to be soaked by the end of the lesson, even then! …

  He’s still keeping my hand clasped in his as he stares at me. Without thinking, I squeeze his hand gently, losing myself in its heat and size and strength and - oh my God did Lorenzo Moretti just wink at me?

  It was unmistakable, that was the thing, it wasn’t just a flutter of an eyelid, but a slow, deliberate, pointed wink, accompanied by unusually flushed cheeks and a smile that was nothing short of devilishly enticing.

  I wish I knew how to respond. I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself, in case he’s just having his little bit of fun with me, flirting with the starry-eyed groupie fangirl, but I don’t want to disencourage him either …

  Oh, who am I trying to fool, I want to encourage him, want him to keep looking at me like that, want him to keep my hand in his, want him to touch more than just my hand.

  I didn’t exactly dress up this morning just for random kicks, I pathetically went shopping yesterday afternoon for outfits that I hoped would get a reaction from him, though I didn’t perhaps expect him to be quite that blatant, that intense - not that I’m complaining, ha!

  But how do I indicate that to him that I want more, what am I supposed to do, just grab him and kiss him? Or just take off my top, like they do in the movies?

  I’ve never tried to initiate anything with a guy, never even done anything with any guy, I’d make a terrible seductress. And it would be awful if he pulled back and rejected me, or tried to laugh it off - I’d just about die of shame and embarrassment.

  Everything says to me that he’s interested, but on the other hand what do I know about these things?

  Dear God, all he would have to do is give the order and I would do whatever he wanted of me. Anything. That’s just the sort of effect he has on me.

  He’s now squeezing my hand as well, and my knees are wobbly, I’m staring up at him like a deer in headlights, with equal parts arousal and fear, fear that he’ll misunderstand me, fear that he’ll understand me. Fear, perhaps, that if he understands me, he’ll think I’m weird or way too forward.

  Calm down Evie or you’ll look like an absolute idiot in front of him. Ugh, I have no idea how I’m even going to be able to play anything for him when my heart is beating the way it is …

  His smile widens slightly, but he lets go of my hand almost immediately after.

  Obviously he couldn’t have held it forever, but I already miss the electricity of his touch …

  “Well, why don’t you play the rest of the sonata for me today? Or did you bring something else?”

  “T-the rest of the sonata is fine,” I stammer meekly, totter over to the Steinway, and sit down.

  It’s good to be sitting down, I feel better already. Well, better as in more collected, not so flustered, as I contemplate the eighty-eight keys to which I’ve devoted my life so far. I feel slightly steadier, at least until I realise that I’ve just basically agreed to start with the scherzo - really not the best opener, it’s so fast-moving, and I can’t afford to make the slightest mistake.

  Under normal circumstances I don’t like slipping up as it is, but in front of this gorgeous, brilliant man? It would be awful.

  I want to impress him so much, I don’t want him to think I’m some stupid bimbo with delusions of grandeur. His attention is so galvanising, so incredibly addictive - I can’t imagine going back to where I was before I met him, to that grey anodyne blankness that I’ve become too used to over the years.

  I’ve never experienced anything like what I’m experiencing now. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, I feel like my life has gone from black and white to full color, all in the course of twenty-four hours.

  But that’s enough, I’ve got to start now. Breathe, Evie, breathe. Look at him, get his nod authorising you to begin, and then go on, begin …

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Look at her fingers flying all over the keyboard. And I do actually mean that, as in: look at her fingers, Renzo, because if I don’t, I’ll look elsewhere, at her less innocent parts, and then my thoughts will go in a direction that won’t be very conducive to a lesson, and I do owe her a lesson, after all.

  What happens after the lesson is another story altogether, of course …

  I mean, look at that getup. Yesterday she showed up all modest and unassuming, in a dress that was maybe slightly provocative, but still definitely within the bounds of decency, and today - today! - she’s like this little sexpot, showing off every asset she’s got.

  She must know that every time she breathes I can’t help but wonder if the knot holding her top together will finally come loose, liberating those pretty tits and unveiling those saucy nipples that have been teasing me since yesterday. It’s a thought that makes it impossible to concentrate, to think of anything else. Except maybe about those long shapely legs of hers. Those shorts are cut so high that I rather fancy I can see a bit of ass, and what wouldn’t I give to run a hand up the inside of those provocatively bared thighs …

  I almost wish she would actually play something badly so I could have something to focus on that wasn’t her sweet body. But no such luck - after the scherzo, which was fantastic, she gives me a slightly tentative look, and I nod at her to continue, so that she launches into the slow movement.

  And again, it’s ridiculously beautiful.

  She’s an extraordinary pianist, such beauty of tone, such softness of touch, such understanding of phrasing. So melancholic, with all those high notes left lingering tenderly in the air as they dissolve into nothingness.

  I don’t know why Maurizio thinks I have all that much to teach her, I feel like there is only one thing I could teach her, and it isn’t how to play. Well, not how to play the piano, at any rate.

  There are other things starting with the letter P that I’d be quite happy teaching her how to play ...

  I almost don’t know if it’s her playing or her lovely face and body that is driving me crazy. I want her desperately, sure, and it’s not like I’ve never wanted anyone desperately before, but it’s never been with quite this intensity.

  Of course, there’s something about her that I find particularly intriguing. The playing, obviously. The musicality. The obvious intelligence. But there’s also that fascinating, contradictory mixture of almost virginal timidity and provocativeness, and that hint of melancholy in her eyes.

  A beautiful enigma.

  I wonder what her backstory is. Poor little rich girl? She has a vaguely patrician manner about her, and she’s almost certainly not a scholarship case like I was back then - that bag she’s carrying her scores in is tasteful, discreet, elegant, definitely not cheap, and yet at the same time she carries it with a sort of nonchalance, not like a prized object she’s saved up for.

  To which I’d almost say too bad, considering the last time I got involved with one of these rich girls. Another American - an odd coincidence - though it’s true that she wasn’t a musician, or even particularly fond of music. She just happened to be living near the conservatory when I was a student there, and I had a gig playing background music at a couple of her parents’ cocktail parties.

  It didn’t end well, to say the least - there was a marriage that lasted all of an hour, followed by a prompt annulment. It seems I wasn’t good enough for her daddy, and she picked her trust fund over me.

  Of course that was a long time ago, long before I became who I am - I
was twenty and she was a year younger. We were young and stupid, or at least I was, I was actually in love, with all the enthusiasm of youth and naïveté.

  I didn’t even get a lay out of it, because she wouldn’t do anything more than kiss me unless we got married first, and then once we signed the papers she insisted we could announce it to her parents, that they would come round once they heard we were married.

  Brilliant, just brilliant.

  When we got back to her parents’ and announced we’d just come back from city hall, her father said he needed to talk to her in his study, and twenty minutes later she came out all teary and said she would have to request an annulment, because otherwise they would cut her off financially.

  It didn’t matter that I swore up and down that I’d take good care of her and make sure we could live well, that my career was just about to take off, that she could trust me to be successful for her, if not on my own account.

  I never saw her again after that. Half a year later I heard she got knocked up by some rich older guy and married him not long after.

  So much for wanting to save herself for marriage! …

  Suffice it to say that ever since then I’ve never bothered with anyone who wanted me to wait, not that that happens very often these days, ha!

  I don’t expect I’ll have to wait too long with this one either, thank heavens. It’s quite obvious she’s hot to trot. When she finished the third movement she looked at me so very bashfully, her eyes huge with submission and desire, then turned red, squirming in her seat slightly, when I smiled and nodded at her to go on to the last movement.

  It’s the strangest contrast, the way she goes between playing with absolute assurance, and the sweet, vulnerable expression on her face as she looks at me, as though supplicating me for approval - approval that she’d have gotten anyway without having to ask for it.