Teaching The Arts

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I volunteer at the local high school where I teach music—two hours of bass, guitar, and drums for the aspiring rock stars in the area. It’s a way for me to pick up some extra cash and keep both the kids and my own lonely self off the streets during the day.

Ms. Lindstrom teaches creative writing at school—a course that is only offered at the end of the day, so we frequently pass each other in the parking lot, the office, the halls. She is one of the only teachers that is under thirty, as I am myself. She is also the only teacher that has a waiting list for her class and the school newspaper she edits. I have been told that her writing is very good and that her teaching style is exemplary, but creative writing cannot be the draw for all these—mostly male—students. Ms. Lindstrom herself is of course the reason.

Having seen little of her, except in passing, and only the parts that are approved of by the conservative activist PTA of our area (unfortunately, my dear Ms. Lindstrom seems to have a professional wardrobe comprised almost entirely of turtlenecks, tweed, and long skirts, damn it) I have still been caught—snared, if you will—by her loveliness. On the rare occasion that her long golden hair is worn loose, hanging down her back like a bolt of yellow silk, it is as if the sun appears from behind the clouds and all the children come out to play. In this case, however, the children are more likely to be the older boys and the male teachers who find a reason to step outside for a moment or seek out the long waiting list to her class like a reception line that leads to her august presence.

Does Ms. Lindstrom know of the stir she causes, the wash and boil of hormones in the already tempestuous pot that is a high school? She must. But her kindly eyes betray neither exasperation, disgust, nor superiority as she makes her way across campus.

My confessions here betray me as being profoundly single—a better word might be lonely (or better yet, shipwrecked)—functionally non-dating, romantically hapless. It must be this desperation which forced me to consider becoming one of her innumerable suitors. I entertained myself (or perhaps tortured…) with various scenarios. I charmed her I wooed her I seduced her I entertained her I rescued her I worshipped her as I drove to school, listening mostly to the blues and all of the heartache I shared with all men. I obsessed on her and the insurmountable space between us for so long that it became an impossibility, an inspiration to alcoholism, a cruel joke that kept my ego as flaccid and impotent as my hermit of a penis.

Anyway… all that changed last week.

On a different level but with the same dynamic, my music lessons are also attended primarily by boys, sad stoners with private dreams of glory and heart-wrenching wellsprings of pathos and self-pity. No one can truly play the hard rock they love without a healthy measure of self-loathing and romanticism. Some are truly talented, and some are truly tormented. Those who are both and can shape their gifts and curses into something creative may make something of themselves. One such person is one of the only girls in the class, a drummer with the unlikely rock-star name of Kim. The stoners and freaks orbit around her, dazzled, with the same unthinking devotion that the school at large pays to Ms. Lindstrom. And as a planet is circled by her moons and thereby rotates elliptically about a sun, I was surprised to learn that the planet Kim was one of the heavenly bodies warmed by Ms. Lindstrom’s light. In short, Kim was one of the creative writers on whom Ms. Lindstrom bestowed special attention. And Kim had a marvelous idea…

One of the most neglected elements to my music class, I can safely say, is the writing of lyrics. Mine always sound canned and awkward and I generally allow the young punks to fend for themselves. But Kim approached me one day after class with the tentative diffidence which all adolescents have. Yet Kim was bolder than most, being an exalted senior and a true hellion, and she was able to meet my eyes as she spoke to me.

‘I need help writing lyrics, Mr. Marcks,’ she said, and pulled her slim fingers through her thick straight rusted red hair. I assured her that she didn’t and that her writing was beyond most of those in the class, including myself.

‘That’s why I asked if Ms. Lindstrom could help us with lyrics. Is that okay?’ She crossed her arms in front of her young breasts protectively, thinking she had perhaps gone too far. I stared at her for a long moment, wondering in successive quick flashes if I were being baited or teased or merely offered one of my fondest wishes gratis. I could only assume the latter, staring at the innocent green eyes of my favorite little rock drummer.

‘That would be fine,’ I managed as nonchalantly as I could and gave her a supportive grin. Kim beamed happily and waved good-bye, striding away from me in low-hanging baggy pants and a tight small shirt that bared her tapering waist. I saw all my poor pimple-faced metal-heads watch her go with pained expressions, Escort bayan and my sudden erotic thoughts of Ms. Lindstrom expanded to encompass little Kim as well. I thought of her bashing her drum kit with the abandoned physicality of an animal, and how she would gasp and heave with honest joyful power as the music would thrill through her…. No no no. That would never do, to cross the inviolable line between 28 year-old teacher and 18 year-old student no matter how alluring.

Ms. Lindstrom came to our next class and held us spellbound with her fascinating lecture on meter, rhythm, rhyme, metaphor, and many other literary techniques which I can’t seem to recall because I was noticing how the light seemed to come off her golden skin and how her small ears looked like candy to me. It was my first opportunity to examine her without fear of being caught staring and stare I did until my eyes began to water. Ms. Lindstrom is devastating. I had only caught hints of it before, but regardless of how a woman looks, or even walks, it is the way she expresses herself that slays me, utterly destroys me. And Ms. Lindstrom was a slayer and destroyer of the highest order, a hydrogen bomb, a cup of poison, a sledgehammer. Her lips were incredibly full and kept almost perpetually in a half-smile of promised innuendo. Her tilted blue eyes were almond-shaped and vast, but held a complexity which hinted that the discovery of this woman was a process that would take years, centuries. She had a dry sense of humor and a rich warm laugh. I was enslaved.

At one point she called me to the front of the class to illustrate a lyric she had composed off the cuff. I grabbed my trusty Gibson and approached, grinning like an idiot. She asked me to come up with a melody line for :

Lip to lip and Hip to hip We dance alone On nature’s strip

Melody lines come out of my guitar like honey from a beehive and I stepped forward and tore out a beautiful arcing riff for her. I sang her lines above it and ended with a flourish, a quick flashy solo that echoed the images and the words. I opened my eyes to find her suddenly regarding me with the same warm gaze that I had been sending her way for the last hour.

After class, she approached me and asked me to dinner. No preamble, no cattiness, just a sincere invitation.

Dinner was perfect, unbearably so. There are moments in one’s life that are so complete and pure that we feel the anxiety of them slipping away even as we are caught up in them. Ms. Lindstrom (her first name is Ingrid and she speaks Swedish fluently, be still my beating heart) wore a cream silk blouse with a plunging neckline and a tight knee-length black skirt without hose. Her skin was everywhere, just out of reach but everywhere I looked.

Our conversation consisted mainly of finding similarities in our arts, and we naturally began speaking of Kim as someone who had been able to incorporate both. She had as high a regard for my drummer as I did.

I received a warm kiss at the end of the night and specific plans to meet again three nights later.

Those three days passed unremembered. I would need a hypnotist to unearth their contents.

Ingrid and I met again for dinner on our second date and my need to touch her, kiss her, anything was almost unbearable. She wore a long plain red silk shift which clung to her body and then flared below the knees. I was able to see that her body was as unbelievable as the rest of her. She had full round breasts that swayed beneath the cloth in a way that no bra would have allowed. Her hips swelled perfectly out from her waist, as did her round ass from her slightly curved back. Her shoulders were slim and square. Her legs were trim and long.

We arrived at her apartment after two bottles of wine and a fine dinner. She asked if I wanted another drink and as she headed to the bar I headed where I always go—to the music. Her taste was eclectic and her CDs covered a wide range. I found some Bill Evans and turned it on low.

She returned with the drinks and handed me mine. She kicked off her shoes and let her knit shawl fall to the floor. We toasted each other and drank. When she set her glass down I caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. She smiled at the care and attention, but her smile soon faded as she watched me kiss each finger with what amounted to adulation. She pulled away and pulled the chopsticks out of her hair, letting it fall.

‘I love your hair,’ I told her, reaching for it.

‘Ain’t it something?’ She stepped back laughing and pulled her hair in front of her face, examining it. ‘And it’s really soft. Close your eyes.’ I complied eagerly and felt the light feathery touch of her hair slide across my face. I suddenly became very warm. I then felt her soft lips on mine, gently, and we kissed like that, chastely, for several minutes. I reveled in the softness of her lips. Her skin, her hair, the silk, it was all equally soft.

She led me behind the hanging lace drape that closed her bedroom off. Our kisses had grown more hungry, Bayan escort our tongues had come into play and I was driving myself crazy running mine over the sharp edges of her teeth. I encircled her head with my hands and kissed her forcefully. She drove her tongue into my mouth and I sucked on it slowly, up and down. She opened her eyes at the sensation, somewhat startled, but her breathing deepened and she pushed me back on the bed.

I fell backwards and she slipped my shoes off. She stretched like a cat, her arms high above her head, back arching, and she turned to the side so I could see how her full breasts strained against the red silk dress. She hooked a finger under a spaghetti strap and slid it from her shoulder. She watched me intently with that half smile I had immediately grown to love. I suppose my jaw was hanging on my chest and a pool of saliva was collecting on my shirt but I really can’t remember. The other strap fell and her dress was held up by her breasts alone. My cock stirred in my slacks, awakened from a tragically long hibernation. She peeled the sheer fabric from her tits. I know my mouth fell open then. They were lovely, round, soft, everything the best plastic surgeons (in conjunction with Dow Corning and Playboy) constantly strive for but have so far failed to achieve. The nipples were large and pink and quickly growing erect.

I sat up but she shook her head, sending her golden hair spilling over shoulder onto her breasts. She let the dress fall past her smooth stomach with a slight curve. She held it at her hips, staring at me with a steamy look. She turned around and bent—legs straight—from her hips, and let the dress slide from her gorgeous round ass. She slowly straightened up. Her ass was so round, such a full globe, it threatened to offset her lush figure. It was almost too much. Such an extreme swell from her hips and her back it was almost an absurd right angle. And it was all firm and smooth, so much so that I had to wonder what kind of exercises she could possibly do to create such a figure.

She turned back to me and I could see the light fleece of her pussy. The hair was short and curly and I was willing to bet anyone in the world that it would be softer yet. She slinked up to the foot of the bed, cat-like self-consciousness, fully aware of what a goddess she was, and stood before me. I sat up and unbelievingly touched her shoulder, her arm. I kissed her belly which was terribly warm, and raised my head to brush my lips over her nipple. She shuddered and lowered her breasts to me. I opened my mouth and licked them slowly, like an ice cream cone, and them found her nipples with my teeth and began to nibble gently. She gasped and knelt before me. In between kisses, she asked me:

‘I’m quite lovely, aren’t I?’ she asked confidently.

‘I’d tell you,’ I replied, ‘but I’m speechless.’ She laughed happily and ran her fingers through my hair. She looked deeply into my eyes.

‘What would you like to do now, Mr. Marcks?’ she asked. ‘Shall I strip your pants off and lower my beautiful lips down until they surround your big hard cock and suck you until you cum, or would you like to bury your head between my exquisite soft thighs and run your tongue up and down my slit until my cunt is ready to explode?’

I had no response to that. By the look on my face she realized she had said more than I had expected to hear. She laughed, low and throaty.

‘It may be music that turns you on, honey. But for me, it’s always been words.’ I nodded as this beautiful blonde goddess went back to kissing me and tugging on my lips with her beautiful teeth.

‘I guess we’ll take it in order stated, then, if you don’t mind?’ she asked innocently, slowly unzipping my fly. I shook my head dumbly, my mind racing, trying to find the words to arouse her as much as she had aroused me. My slacks came sliding off my legs. She peeled my socks from my feet. My hard prick formed a tall tent pole in my boxer shorts. She stuck out her long pink tongue and slowly lowered her head. I watched, amazed. The tip of her tongue lightly touched the tip of my cock through the thin cotton fabric of my shorts and I believed I could feel the sensation and the heat. She exhaled a deep breath and I could definitely feel the warmth spreading over my lap.

Her hands came up and hooked the elastic band and she stripped the boxers from me. She sat back on her heels and looked at me with an admiring look on her face. (I have to trust her and believe it was real. There is nothing more arousing than having someone you believe the apex of sexuality look at you in the way you look at them.) She opened her mouth wide and lowered her head slowly again…

The doorbell rang. She sat back. I looked at her. She looked at the door.

She suddenly stood. ‘Oh damn,’ she said, running to her closet. She pulled out a long silk robe and covered herself up. ‘Oh damn. Oh damn,’ she repeated. ‘I forgot.’ She hurried out of the room.

A great sense of tragedy welled up inside me and I began to deflate. This Escort cannot be happening, I thought. I could see her through the lace drape buzzing someone in and waiting for them at the door. A soft knock and she swung the door open to reveal Kim. Our favorite student. She was wearing tattered shorts and a tight t-shirt. Her face was red and she was carrying a bicycle helmet.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Kim said breathlessly as she stepped past Ingrid into the apartment. Ingrid turned and looked in my direction, but her gaze had an unfocused look, indicating (to my great relief) that she couldn’t see me in the darkened room. Her look was worried, though. My own mind was a tangle of desire, adult responsibility, and impatient need. Kim dropped her helmet and looked around. She noticed that her teacher was in a long robe.

‘Were you going to bed?’ Kim asked. It seemed Ingrid was going to be given the perfect excuse.

‘No…’ my lover replied, surprising me. Her face still wore a somewhat puzzled look.

‘Waiting for me?’ Kim asked. And then, to my great surprise, she stepped forward and kissed Ms. Ingrid Linstrom full on the mouth.

I almost shouted out loud, my surprise was so great at seeing this. But I was even more surprised to see Ingrid respond. She draped her slim golden hand behind Kim’s head and ran her fingers softly through her hair. It seems whatever invisible uncrossable line that had existed between teacher and student was now completely gone. Kim slipped one of her small pale hands into Ingrid’s robe to fondle one of her lovely tits, but Ingrid pushed her away.

‘Your hands are cold,’ Ingrid said, laughing slightly. She was looking in my direction, though, and I could see her concern about my reaction to this development. I didn’t know myself, except it was becoming more and more difficult to separate my feelings of lust, desire, responsibility, and everything else from each other.

Ingrid made the decision for me, thank the gods, and decided to warm Kim’s hands up again by blowing on them.

‘I missed you so much,’ Kim said, looking up into Ingrid’s beautiful blue eyes. Kim’s voice had the ache of all adolescent obsessions. Ingrid leaned down and kissed Kim. Kim melted into her. Ingrid stepped back and stripped Kim’s t-shirt off her and removed her lacy little bra. I was afforded a look of a eighteen year-old body for the first time… well, since I was eighteen. As Kim hurriedly pulled her shorts off, my eyes drank in her pale pink flesh. She was smaller by several inches than her teacher and her figure was naturally less voluptuous. But her breasts were high and perfectly the right size to be covered by a woman’s golden hand. Her bush was a darker red thatch that nestled between her white thighs. Her ass was not to be believed, though, a perfect heart shape that tapered into her narrow little waist.

Ingrid opened her robe and enveloped the girl in it, closing it around the two of them as they swayed back and forth on the living room floor. They kissed each other fervently, Kim letting little gasps and moans of pleasure escape from between her pink little lips.

‘Kiss me,’ Kim said urgently. ‘Kiss my neck, my little tits, my hard nipples…’ And I realized that Kim was another, of course, who was turned on by words.

‘Do you want me to bury my face in your pussy?’ Ingrid asked.

‘Oh yes, Ms. Linstrom.’ I was aroused by the fact that Kim still addressed her teacher so formally. But I was becoming aroused for several reasons. Ingrid lowered Kim onto the carpet and laid her out. Kim stretched her cute little body and arched her back. Ingrid sat between her student’s legs and looked at her appraisingly.

‘Shall I start sucking on your little clit now, Kim?’

‘Oh yes oh yes oh yes…’ Kim replied and tried to pull Ingrid’s head down between her legs. ‘Oh please…’ But Ingrid resisted for a moment. ‘And aren’t you going to tell me a story as I eat you, baby?’ Kim thought for a moment and then said, ‘Okay…’ Ingrid smiled and lowered her head to that juicy little mound. Kim immediately started to moan. She closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. She wrapped her white legs around the woman’s blonde head. But Ingrid’s motions stopped and Kim’s eyes snapped open. A little cry of dismay escaped her lips.

‘Oh… the story. Right. Well…’ And Ingrid’s head started to move in its little circles again. ‘I think… I think I’m ready to try having sex with a man…’ Ingrid completely stopped and pulled Kim’s legs down, looking closely at her. ‘Oh! Not because I don’t love you more than anyone else in the whole world, Ms. Lindstrom. I do! I do!’

‘I know, darling.’ Ingrid’s hand went between Kim’s legs and started rubbing her in little circles. Kim squirmed. ‘It’s just that you said I might be ready some day and I think I am,’ Kim explained. ‘I’ve been reading some stories and books about sucking men’s cocks and getting fucked like a dog from behind and…’ Ingrid dived back down to the girl’s wet pussy as she heard these words. ‘…and riding a man up and down, having his big shaft pump in and out of my tight little hole as he’s sucking on my tits like a little baby.’ Kim smiled a smile beyond her years. ‘Is that the kind of story you wanted me to tell, Ms. Lindstrom?’ Ingrid looked up briefly and wiped a stream of juices from her chin.