It was the thing she had for swoopy haired boys, Gwen decided, that made it so difficult for her to dislike Julian Swanson.
And she really wanted to dislike him.
The reasons were many. His laziness, his money and the spoiled churlish attitude he wore with pride—fostered by his fawning mother— were at the top of the list.
However if she were truly honest, Gwen would not pick any of those flaws as the thing that really bothered her about Julian. The thing she would have to choose—if forced to be truthful—would be his talent. He was a one in a million pianist. Julian Swanson was a raw, talented genius.
Wasted genius wrapped in lazy swoopy haired blond angelic beauty.
Gripping the ruler and pencil she’d just used to alter the sheet music Gwen faked authoritative calm and said, “Julian. That’s not Bach.”
“It isn’t?” he asked fluttering those criminally long lashes and shooting her a butter wouldn’t melt smile.
Hunched over her practice piano his fingers flew across the keys. A lush and full version of Unforgiven filled the room, rolling over her senses like a pounding waterfall. For a moment she indulged him, and herself, as she listened. Then, placing a hand gently over his she said, “Very clever Julian, but it’s not going to get you into the Academy.”
He sighed and slumped, in that dramatic way only teenagers can.
“You need structure, you need form…you need discipline.” Gwen repeated, yet again, an argument that had become well worn.
“Discipline.” Julian spat out the word, his pretty mouth curled in a snarl.
She touched his shoulder and he turned to face her, all shining talent and beauty—more proof that life was simply not fair. His face still held the softness of youth, while he was gorgeous now; Gwen knew that with age he would become stunning. She was only nine years older than his eighteen, but when he looked at her that way it made her feel as if she were ancient. If Mrs Swanson hadn’t paid double her usual fee Gwen would’ve dropped Julian as a pupil months ago. She had other students whose parents scrapped together her fee. Students who practiced for hours in the feint hope of hearing her praise. Students who were far more deserving of her time than the spoiled and petulant Julian Swanson.
She was tired, tired of being the bad guy. “I am not the enemy Julian.”
He dropped his head and a curtain of blonde hair fell across his face. She reached over, tucked the silky strands behind his ear and looked into his eyes. “Do you really want this?”
He nodded. “I love to play. I want to play—just not their way.”
“I know, but you need to play their way to get in, to prove that you’re good enough.”
“Why do I have to prove anything?”
He deserved his arrogance. His natural talent easily outstripped her years of dedicated practice, but it was raw and without a good understanding of the fundamentals it would never reach maturity. “It’s not about what you have to prove Julian; it’s about what you want and what you’ll do to be the best.” It pained her to say it, especially to this spoiled little boy but she grit her teeth and said it anyway, “You have the potential to be the best pianist composer of this age.” He smiled wide at her ego stroking, which made Gwen feel all the better to finish by saying, “But you won’t be without study. You’ll be the best that could have been, that’s all.”
He didn’t speak, instead pouted his beautiful mouth and looked down at his long fingers spread wide on the keys and started to play—the Bach that was the audition piece. She relaxed and smiled until he again started to intersperse it with Metallica. This time Master of Puppets.
Wicked eyes flashed up through that silky curtain of hair and he smirked. The lazy little bastard smirked at her! Gwen had her rising anger under control until he said, “Had you going there Miss Stafford. Didn’t I?”
The anger became a burning flash of rage; her knuckles gripped the ruler until the wood cut into her skin. He built the song to the crescendo of the chorus, hammering the keys to imitate the pounding guitar riff. The music, the anger, the time lost to this spoiled boy all layered building up until her vision blurred with white hot rage. Without forethought, without her usual reservation she cracked the ruler down on top of the piano.
The sound made him stop. The silence left seemed to crackle with her fury. He knew it. The look he flashed her, was shocked, fearful and…
…filled with lust?
She brought the ruler down again keeping her eyes on him. What she saw there gripped her stomach with clenching heat. He flinched at the noise, shuddered and then his mouth went slack letting out a blatantly sexual sound.
Where the rush of dominance came from she didn’t know, but fuelled by that sound she knew he needed it. She needed it. So she said, “You need discipline.”
“Yes Miss Stafford.”
“No more games Julian. You’ll play. Without mistake.”
He swallowed and returned his trembling hands to the keys. He fumbled, early in the piece, giving her the opening that she wanted.
“On your knees.” She pointed the ruler where she wanted him. He didn’t protest and fell to his knees in front of the upholstered piano seat.
She touched the ruler lightly to his bottom and ordered, “Off.”
He fumbled with his belt buckle. He favored the skater boy look and his jeans were skin tight black. She enjoyed watching him struggle to pull them over his hips. Now he lay bare assed before her, smooth golden skin over taut muscle. She longed to touch, but not yet—first she had to give him what he needed.
His head hung low, his long hair brushing the polished wooden floor.
“Count them out,” she said before the first blow hit.
He stifled a cry. A whimpering sound that sent a rush of throbbing wet heat between her legs. She’d never before done this, and yet somehow she knew exactly what to do.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
He counted out the blows as she crisscrossed his ass with hot pink stripes. He slipped back on the padded piano seat and she could see his bobbing erection. Long thin and tipped with glistening droplets of cum. He tilted his hips trying to rub his cock on the fabric. She lowered the ruler to his erection and gently pushed him back.
“No Julian. You don’t come until I say so.”
He looked up at her, his face flushed and his bottom lip damp and swollen from where he’d been biting it. “Please. Miss Stafford,” he begged.
Oh, how she liked the sound of that. Of him begging, supplicated before her. No arrogance now in his pretty blue eyes, just submissive desperation.
“Up. Up on your knees in front of me.”
He slipped back off the seat and shifted to sit up on his knees in front of her. When he tried to pull up his jeans she shook her head and said, “No. Leave them.” He nodded and his eyes followed her as she dropped the ruler down on the seat.
She shifted forward until his face was level with her crotch. Reaching down she gripped her fingers into his hair and tilted his face up to look at her. “You’re a bad boy Julian Swanson. A wicked little boy who needs to be taught a lesson.”
He tried to nod; she kept her hand tight in his hair so that it pulled at the strands with every movement of his head. With her other hand she lifted her skirt until it bunched up at her hips. He groaned at the sight.
“Take them off,” she said and those talented long fingers went quickly to her panties and pulled them down over her legs. When he had them at her feet she helped him by kicking them over the sensible grey low heeled pumps she wore.
“Have you ever?” she asked, nodding down at her spread legs.
“Yes.” He answered, his eyes locked on the pink lips of her pussy.
“Do a good job Julian. Or you’ll be punished.”
At that he groaned and buried his head between her legs. She brought both hands down to his hair and tilted his head to meet her need. His tongue was wet, hot and insistent. What he lacked in talent he more than made up for in enthusiasm. She rode his face, rolling her hips to grind against his mouth. Clutching her fingers in his beautiful blond mane she used it as a handle to guide his wicked mouth. Already primed by the rush of spanking him she came quickly. Locking her knees tight she held his head hard against her groin to stop from buckling under the pleasure. She cried out, the sound echoing loud against the bare walls of the practice room. The strongest, most desperate orgasm of her life.
Her skirt still rucked up around her hips she looked down at him nestled between her bare legs. His angelic mouth was swollen and wet with her juices; she longed to lick them clean. Down lower, between his legs his cock strained out as wet as his mouth, glossy and dripping with pre-cum.
“Do you want to come?”
“Yes Miss Stafford.”
“Then finish the Bach.”
She reached down and took his hand, pulling him up to stand. Looking into his lust glazed eyes she took one of his pianist perfect fingers and sucked it into her mouth. “Do it perfectly and I’ll suck you.” She sucked hard on the finger and watched his eyes roll back with pleasure.
Gwen righted her skirt and then helped him pull his jeans up over his spank sore ass. Smiling as he gingerly sat down on the piano seat, knowing how each movement would push at the swollen streaks her ruler had painted on his soft skin.
With determined concentration he finished the piece perfectly for the first time in the months she’d been tutoring him. Gwen dropped to her knees, leaving his jeans as they were, and tugged his cock through the open fly. It sprang out tall, red tipped and sticky with pre-cum. She licked the head before taking him in her mouth, deep until her nose nestled in his pubic hair. He bucked wildly, moaned like an animal and took barely minutes before he filled her mouth with teenage cum.
She licked her lips and looked up at him, still between his legs on her knees.
“You’ll practice. Won’t you Julian.”
“Yes Miss Stafford.” He said dutifully, without a trace of his usual arrogance.
* * * *
Years later Gwen watched an interview with him on 60 Minutes where they asked him who the biggest influence was on his outstanding musical career.
“That’s easy,” he said with his trademark boyish grin, “Miss Stafford. My high school piano tutor.”
“What did she teach you, that’s stuck with you through your amazing career?” The polished blond journalist asked.
He didn’t look at the journalist when he answered instead turning to face the camera. His focused blue eyes filled her television screen making her feel as if he was just talking to her.
“Discipline,” he said and a jolt of pleasure gripped her womb—just like the first time she cracked the ruler. His grin turned wicked and his eyes flashed and she hoped she’d see him again soon.