Music Class

A music lesson unfolds. Two brunettes lean in close at the grand piano, fingers idle on the keys. Amanda tilts her chin, and Ann’s mouth finds hers, tasting. Tongues trace, then dip lower. Amanda parts her legs across the bench, skirt riding up, and Ann drops to her knees. No sheet music is opened. Instead, Ann’s tongue slips between Amanda’s smooth lips, slow, deliberate, tasting the heat she finds there. Amanda’s breath catches, becomes a low moan that fills the quiet room. She lifts her hips, greedy for more, and Ann answers, sliding two fingers inside her. Wet sounds echo off the walls—slick, insistent—louder than any scale they were meant to practice. Amanda’s fingers tangle in Ann’s dark hair, urging her on, while her own thighs tremble against the wood. Each lick, each thrust draws fresh gasps that rise and fall like an impromptu aria, pleasure rewriting the lesson entirely.