I've been teaching the piano for twenty-seven years. Ms. Marjorie Danes, they call me, as if refusing to forget the time I almost - almost - got married. Not that there is anything unusual in small town gossip. At my age, you learn to ignore the things people say, the glances and subdued smirks. With my head held high, I've weathered every storm that life has thrown at me, and a few more besides-- everything up to my current predicament. One which, I suspect, will be the end of me.

Not death, naturally - as much as the boy likes to play rough, I have no suspicion that he will do me harm. But there are many ways to be undone, some of which are unique to the small-town life that I have built for myself. A rented studio, a comfortable apartment above the hardware store, shopping for groceries twice a week at a shop where people know my name-- the cozy trappings of an existence practically covered in dust, muted and quiet the way I prefer it. To be the resident old maid of the town, a straight-laced figure of some quaint authority, lording over the resident children only when their parents force them to practice the piano once or twice a week, and then nothing more. No doubt, people believe me to be older than I am, hiding, as I have been, behind an outdated wardrobe and an air of world-weariness. For a woman barely scraping 50, I must seem like a grandmother of 75 to most of them. And I have been content to feed this perception, to encourage it, because it has let me go on living the monotonous existence that I craved after being left at the altar. No one pays much heed to the quiet maid shuffling around in the background. They are all content to be the hero of their own story, and hurry on through to the next, grand adventure.

Well, all of them but one. The Boy. Well, the Man, I should say, but with his youthful face and cheery, cocky grin, he seems more like a lad of sixteen than a man of twenty-two. Still-- of all the people to come through my studio and take up my lessons, he was the only one to ever really look at me. Which I suppose is as much a blessing as a curse. Truth be told, I had thought my life had already ended, and that Brahms and Strauss would be the only companions to sing me to my eventual rest. The fact that they boy lit a new fire in me was... surprising. And the manner in which he did so was disconcerting. But I am getting ahead of myself...

A virtuoso, he is, although he is loathe to accompany his innate talent with much in the way of hard work. Urged by his over-worked mother to at least give my tutelage a try, he came into my parlor with a tight-fitting white t-shirt that left no question about his masculine physique, and a grin so devious that I should have sensed something untoward even then. But I welcomed him, and offered him the usual, free-of-charge first lesson that I extend to any new student, whether I know their parents or not. And when he finally sat down to play, his long, powerful fingers flexing over the keys... well, it was enough to make my heart swell with joy.

His talent was self-evident, and as he played, he kept his gaze firmly on me, seeming to take an almost visceral delight in making my jaw drop. He was not the first talented musician I had seen through my doors - one girl had famously gone on to join the conservatory, and now played for the London Philharmonics - but his was an effortless ease that almost beggared belief. At the end of the first hour, I found myself having offered him no criticism, and with a slightly rapturous, hammering heart at the whorls and trills he coaxed from the ivories. As he gave me his hand, I wondered what he might be hoping to gain from studying under me, but he nonetheless asked me for a time and date for him to return for another lesson. I stammered a response, and saw his eyes dip slightly before he nodded with a confident smirk, and told me that he would be back.

Thus began the predicament. I should have noticed, then, his cold, pale stare, or the way the corner of his mouth creased slightly too crooked when he smiled. But I was enamored. Not with him and his youth, but with his talent. That night, I laid in bed and wondered what I might teach him. As a pianist, I had many pieces with which I had struggled for years. The idea of offering them to him filled me with a mix of emotions; excitement, on one hand, to see him succeed-- and envy, on the other, to be his inferior. But it was all I could do to hope to further his education. He was, by all accounts, an accomplished musician already. What help I could offer would only be cursory.

And so I did what I had set out to, and offered him the tougher works that had vexed me for years. The syncopated rhythms, the staccato melodies, the peaks and valleys of the old masters rendered in glossy ink, so beyond my own skill as to frustrate me endlessly. He looked at them, calculatingly, and told me he would try. And slowly, he unwound the patterns, shifting from one hand to the next while experimenting with the intricacies of art that should have been, by all accounts, too great for him to handle. I stood by his side, hands folded in my lap, and felt a mix of pride and malignant jealousy well up in me. In just a brief, half hour, he had picked up as much of the first piece as I had in a decade, and when he finally leaned back and told me he needed a rest for his fingers, it was with a sly, triumphant smirk on his lips. I acquiesced to his desire; he had, after all, earned a break.

"It is a tough one," he remarked, leaning back and shifting on the stool to face me. I noticed how his gaze lingered on my chest for a moment too long, but thought nothing of it - standing next to him as I was, my breasts were naturally at eye-level with him. Instead, I agreed demurely.

"Only a few dozen people know how to play it. But you are making great headway. You should be proud."

He flashed a grin at me, stretching his fingers as if to limber them up. "And you?" he asked.

"And me, what?" His question puzzled me, and I felt oddly naked under his gaze, despite the thick, woolen sweater covering my breasts and the skirt hiding my thighs. "Am I proud of you?"

"Can you play it?" His smirk was wry, now, and he shifted over on the stool to give me room. "I would love to hear it played for real."

I felt a slight blush creep into my cheeks as I shook my head. He already knew the answer, of course; no doubt he had picked my inner workings apart the very moment we met. He is that sort of person - playful, casual, but always thinking, always calculating and turning the odds in his favor.

"I am afraid not. In this regard, the student outshines the teacher."

"Ah." He feigned a look of embarrassment, but it seemed more like the face of the cat that's caught the canary. "My apologies. I hope that wasn't a sore spot for you."

I snorted softly, but kept my cool. He was young, disrespectful - but if he had even half the talent he seemed to have, his rise through the world of music would be meteoric. I would have had to be a fool not to mentor him, if only to say that I knew him when...

"Not at all." A cool smile, before I gently closed the lid on the piano. "But we should end it here. It is better to practice in short, concentrated bursts than overtax yourself by pushing too hard."

He nodded, seemingly unconvinced, and left shortly thereafter. The last look he gave me, as he was heading out the door, was one of barely-hidden amusement, mixed with some odd craving that I could not identify. I shut the door behind him, but could not shake the feeling of having been, in essence, tricked. Even as the light faded, and I busied myself with the particulars of cooking, cleaning and showering, I could not ignore the strange sensation in my chest and stomach, growing stronger every time I thought of him. It was eerie, uncanny-- but even with his presence as a constant entity in my head, I had things to do. I tried to distract myself with television and a book. I tried playing the piano for myself, to relax. Nothing helped.

That night, I masturbated for the first time in many months. With my legs clamped daintily around my hand, I closed my eyes and felt the pleasurable tension rise as the thought of him filled my mind. It was not a conscious thing - the lust had a hold of me, and try as I might, every fantasy inevitably turned to him, his wiry, masculine body and cocky, confident smile leering at me as he bent over me and did... whatever he wanted. I felt helpless, lost in a torment of my own creation, but only when my mind finally turned to the long, thick shape of his cock sliding between my legs did I cum, shivering and moaning piteously as the climax rocked through me. And later, as I slept, my dreams were strange and hazy with the image of him, smirking knowingly at me from the shadows. I woke, once, in the middle of the night, and found my hand back down between my legs, the other groping my heavy, squeezable breasts as his eyes stared at me from the darkest corners of my imagination.

I got very little sleep that night. And the affliction only got worse the day after, and the day after that, until I was starting to feel paralyzed by the strange, aching need for him. Returning home on the fourth day, I found myself pulling out a cucumber from my bag of groceries, and locking myself in the bathroom for half an hour as I fucked myself to two consecutive orgasms, his name on my lips the entire time. I felt wrong, slutty - like a hormonal teenager developing a first crush, despite my mature body and dusty, overgrown mind. I became aware of my libido again, and began to notice the heft of my plump tits, the sway of my curvaceous ass. I began sleeping in the nude, relishing the sensation of the silky sheets against my dark nipples and the drag of the blanket over thick, voluptuous thighs.

Until he returned, on the fifth day, to receive another lesson. The money he handed me was more than he owed, but he confessed a desire to stay on as my pupil for the foreseeable future - and who was I to object? Watching him practice the pieces I had given him, it was more like listening to a concert than any attempt at education from my side, and yet despite this, he seemed perfectly content to let me simply stand and watch as he wove his fingers across the delicate instrument, coaxing such tunes from it as I could never hope to duplicate. By the end of the half hour, his face was contorted into a delighted grin, and I was... well, breathless. Whatever Faustian deal he had made, his talent was undeniable. And he must have known it, gazing at my face. The look of rapturous joy was not lost on him, nor was the heavy chest, poised mere inches from his face.

"What did you think, Ms. Danes? Do you think I'm improving?"

His smirk was wryly sardonic, and I nodded, trying to ignore the pangs of excitement, lust and envy all vying for attention in my chest.

"Enough so," he continued, "that you reckon a reward might be in order?"

Cocking an eyebrow, I asked him what he meant. I was not in the habit of keeping a bowl of candy on hand for the talented students; the joy of accomplishment surely ought to be a reward in itself.

"Yes," he smiled, turning to face me, "but it occurs to me that I am paying you a lot of money for very little tutelage. That perhaps I was better off finding another teacher - or simply practicing on my own. I occurs to me that whatever talents you have, they extent better towards rewarding me for a job well done, than correcting me on my mistakes. Especially now that I am playing it better than you are-- don't you think?"

His words hit like a slap in the face, but strangely, I could not disagree. Something about the way he said it, the quiet confidence of simply stating these facts, without room for argument, made my chest flutter with girlish excitement, and I felt my head spin slightly as I tried to formulate a response. He was right, of course - I could offer him no criticism that I myself did not deserve, but-- what rewards could I possibly offer him?

His reply was prompt. "Take off your top. I want something pleasant to look at, and that rack of yours ought to do nicely." Gazing deep into my eyes, his lips curled into an impish smile as he spoke. "That's not too much to ask, is it? Your mind may not have much to offer, but your body..! Do it. Take it off, and show me what you are hiding underneath."

I stared at him, unable to comprehend what he was saying. But then, slowly, I felt myself reach up and pull the woolen sweater over my head, exposing the well-stuffed bra underneath. It was a surreal experience, watching his gaze slide down to ogle my chest as his smile widened, but I felt strangely at peace, despite the slight blush of shame in my cheeks. He was right. What else could I offer him, really? What was he paying for...?

"Good," he said, and his hand came up to grab one breast with a surety as if he owned the thing. Slowly, he began to rub and massage my teat, while his other hand crept down between his legs. I heard the sound of a zipper, even as a pang of shameful pleasure coursed through me. Unsure of where to look, I simply kept staring at him, feeling shame and lust mix and struggle through my mind.

"On your knees." It was a command, not a request, and I felt my knees buckle and obey as thoughts of the past several days pounded through my head. He let go of my breast, and instead pulled down his pants far enough to expose a large, thick cock, wider even than I had dared to imagine. I felt absolutely numb, but his next command left no question as to what he wanted.

"Suck it."

And I did. Leaning forward, I felt him seize a handful of my ashen-blonde hair as my lips closed around his tip, and then he was pressing me forward, forcing several inches of thick, fragrant cock into my mouth. There was no gentleness, no tender getting used to his size - he simply pushed my head forward, and bucked his hips until the tip of his girthy cock was thumping against the back of my throat. Gagging, I tried to breathe, but only felt the incessant pressure on the back of my head as he rocked himself back into my mouth, adopting a steady rhythm that made my throaty gags and slurps reverberate around the room. Drool, thick and viscous, began slopping down his shaft, and his voice sounded from above me, oozing filthy words over my head as he fucked my mouth selfishly.

"Good-- good, suck it deeper! Take it, bitch-- unf! Worship my fucking cock with your mouth, you whore..!"

I should have struggled. I should have tried to escape. But I found my tongue rubbing eagerly against his potent cum vein, my lips sucking and slurping to the best of my ability even as my eyes watered and my spit ran in thick ropes down to coat his balls. He was using me, holding my head with both hands and moving it like a toy over his cock, and I would not have asked him to stop even if I had the ability to speak.

And then he stopped. And I was pulled off of his cock with a gasping moan, spit and tears dripping down my face. He twisted my head to look up at him, and smiled triumphantly.

"Take off your bra, slut. I wanna see those MILF titties around my cock."

I fumbled around for the catch, feeling dizzy from the lack of air and the unreal nature of the situation. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I felt the latch come undone, and he reached down to yank the bra off of me with an impatient sneer, baring my cherry-pink nipples to him. They were hard, pointing into the air like tiny pebbles, and he pinched each of them in turn, giggling to himself before dragging me by the shoulders to obey his command.

"What a pair," he laughed, grabbing both of my breasts between his hands and squeezing them roughly around his hard cock. "Fuck, it's like you were made to be titty-fucked! Now open your mouth and suck on the tip - I want to be sure you're ready to take it when I cum..!"

I did as he asked, and in seconds, he had adopted a firm rhythm, bucking his hips against my tits while squeezing them around his ample shaft, with the excess spit coating my cleavage and making him slip and slide with ease. I could only lean my head forward far enough to take the very tip of his cock between my lips, but his frantic bucking and thrusting made him pump his ample head into my mouth with reckless glee, coaxing a long string of wet, slurping noises from my open mouth. Little by little, I felt his ride grow wilder, and the pressure on my breasts increased as he began to bodily grind them over his cock, using my chest as a cock sleeve while grunting and moaning delightedly. I could feel my pussy practically drooling between my legs, but it was impossible to get to it - his fervent rutting kept me locked in place, bound to service and pleasure his throbbing shaft until he was quite done with me.

I would like to say that the end came quickly-- but I would be lying. With my knees aching and my heart racing, he kept me wrapped around his cock for what must have been twenty minutes, altering between stroking his cock between my breasts and pushing deep into my mouth when the spit was threatening to dry up. Little by little, I felt my last bits of restraint dissolve between his heavy, selfish strokes, and by the time his groans rose an octave, and his hips began to grind heavily between my abused breasts, I welcomed his eruption with a small, submissive moan. The first spurt of cum landed on my tongue, painting a broad, white stripe across my taste buds. The next came with more force, and hit the back of my throat, closely followed by the third. By the time he had pumped six heavy jets of cum into my mouth, I could not take it any more, and pulling back off of him to swallow, I took the next two over my face, painting it with sticky salt and gluing one of my eyes shut. Grinning like a mad dog, he ground himself between my pillowy tits with more relish, and let the last of his orgasm ooze out across my chin, neck and cleavage. And then, when his climax faded, he gave a soft, contented sigh and pushed me away, sending me sprawling onto my ass on the floor.

"Good slut," he yawned, and scratched his chin lazily. "That's exactly the kind of encouragement I needed. A little more eagerness next time, perhaps, but we'll work on that."

With that, he got to his feet and pulled his jeans back on, smirking down at me for a brief second before sauntering over to grab his jacket. Shaking and trembling, I got to my feet with the aid of the piano stool, and felt the heat of his sperm covering my face and chest as he made for the exit. Next time...? Of course there would be a next time. He had paid in advance-- five more sessions, at least. And as he pulled open the door, gave me a wink and left, I felt my hand creep, inexorably, between my legs. The stench of cum filled the air, and the taste of him coated my mouth and throat all the way to my stomach. There was no denying my pleasure. Just as there had been no denying his.