Piano practice

I hated piano lessons when Mum forced them on me. While my girlfriends ran free I stayed indoors with a man old enough to be my father. Then something shifted. The notes began to stir between my legs and I started picturing his hands on me instead of the keys. Years later the sight of a grand piano drags every filthy daydream straight back. I picture that same teacher leaning over my shoulder, his breath on my neck, my nipples brushing the ivory while his fingers wander lower than any scale. I slide onto the bench, spread my thighs, and let two fingers circle the wet heat between them. My big tits press against the polished wood as I work myself faster, legs trembling, soft moans echoing off the strings. Blonde hair clings to my damp cheeks while I grind down onto my own hand, chasing the orgasm I once wished he would give me.