Meryl Lee - The younger the better

He watched intently from his usual spot at her left shoulder, then shifted awkwardly to a position behind her head. Her body magic had him in total erection. Glancing down he shuddered at the poor concealment of striped trousers. This time he wondered if he really cared if she knew. It was their last time together. This was Celeste, once his child prodigy now mature and maddening female, about to leave his tutelage. An unbearable emptiness filled the tired frame of the Dean of Music at Gordon Conservatory.

Celeste Ann Dantrelle, virtuoso of piano and organ, and heralded as an incomparably talented dramatic soprano. Now at twenty-two she was about to go from the halls of Gordon to what would surely be a brilliant career.

He, Ulrich Flambeau, had made her. He had taken her in childhood when she was only three and led her through years of preparation. His mind seized on one thought as his gaze wandered over the frame of the girl poised at the massive Moeller organ. He had taken her through so much. But that was precisely what he had never done taken her!

A shudder rippled involuntarily, low in his gut, as Ulrich felt the grab of lust and the nearing of his last chance. Her dress for her lesson hour with him at the start of this, her final week at Gordon, convinced the organ maestro she was thinking the very same thoughts.

"I hope you won't think me immodest, Dean Flambeau. It isn't my dress," she apologized when he helped her from the cape. His startled glance had lingered a second too long on a decolletage that exposed her superlative breasts nearly to the nipples. "I'm playing with the chamber group at an afternoon lawn party and they asked me to wear this. The hostess sent it over." Her pretty blush told him she wasn't used to such exposure. Ulrich should know. He had been near her almost daily through sixteen years.

She sat confident and cock maddening, staring at the music on the rack of the four-manual organ. The console, mirrored across its top, was a monstrosity fronting her with row on row of ivory, flanking her with massive panels of stops and beneath her feet dozens of foot pedals. And there at the center of the complex organ she had mastered so completely sat the loveliest thing Ulrich Flambeau knew he ever would see in all his lifetime.

"You may play," he said quietly.

The music flowed gently firmly superbly from under her fingers, reaching into the heart of the instrument, soaring through its myriad pipes out into the great practice room. This day Ulrich heard none of her genius. Only the sound of his soaring want of this precious girl he had turned into a virtuoso.

From his vantage point behind her he looked down at the casual tumble of rich dark hair framing the beauty of an angel face. That had always been what deterred him before. Large dark innocent eyes, sweet chiseled delicacy of cheekbone and nose and soft satin rich lips. This disarming combination that topped the voluptuous body of a now ripened love-ready girl had awed the man more and more in these last years. And it was soon all to be lost to him.

He stared at nipples clearly urgent against the satin cocktail sheathe, then at the dramatic curve of firm and thrusting milk-white orbs cleaved deeply at their middle. His penis was rigid and painful and the back of her head not two inches from his trouser's front. As she tilted to look down at the pedals, Flambeau had his chance.

His hand darted quickly and the whisper of his zipper was lost in the notes of the organ. Just as his hand was about to release the frenzied excitement from the gaping of his fly, the music stopped.

"You said something, sir?" Her head turned as she glanced in the mirror and smiled quietly.

About to deny it, Ulrich decided it was time to make the bold move. "Celeste, my dear, you have a beautiful body."

"Thank you, sir." No one ever addressed the dean of the conservatory in less formal terms. "Shall I play for you now?"

"You have magnificent female attributes." He seemed not to hear her question and the first-time-ever praise from her idol continued. This was Dean Flambeau of the dancing fingers and the fabulous baritone voice.

"Thank you, sir." She colored prettily and stared down at her hands resting lightly on the ledge of the keyboard.

"There's one thing you must overcome. You are shy about your breasts. Your posture is atrocious. May I tell you what I would do, if I were a woman with your attributes?"

"Please, sir?"

"I would wear dresses like that, but with a decolletage even more daring. I would present my concerts, shoulders back, breasts brazenly displayed. I would show all the endowments the Lord gave me."

"Thank you, sir. I think I'd be self-conscious. But thank you." She shivered inwardly. She had heard the word from the maestro himself. By the throaty sound, he was preparing another word.

Labored breathing caught her ear. Uncommon in Dean Flambeau. "You must always be in command, my dear. You are a great talent. You are the Goddess of great music. The people expect you to be different."

"I don't think I understand, sir."

"Your personal life, child. Your sexual life, if you will. That is totally yours to choose or reject. But if you choose it, use your admirers at will and never demean yourself to be grateful for what is yours to take."

"Do you mean that, sir?"

"Posture, child! Sit straight and proud!"

He caught her shoulders and drew them back. Demanding, delightful sensations flooded him at the satiny feel of her flesh. Tendrils of dark hair brushed his trouser front and he went weak to the sensation of light bedeviling tresses drifting through his opened fly.

"Now, for this exercise at the organ today, I am going to insist on that posture and bring it about!"

He bent unexpectedly and planted his hands at both sides of her rib cage. "As you play, my dear, I shall compel your best posture. Proceed!"

Her body stiffened as she felt the gentle hands at her midriff and knew the man looking over her shoulder was staring directly at her daring boob display. Just the knowledge sent tingling excitement to the already taut cones, and at that instant he cupped firmly upward to force the globes into even greater prominence.

"Posture, my dear. Show the world your magnificent body profile."

Now his palms were directly at the curve of her breasts and hefting lightly.

"That's what I mean," he said, breaking contact with one hand which in the mirror she saw disappear behind her head.

His phallus was a possessed animal surging for freedom against his pants and he blessed the position directly behind her that let him dare so great a risk. Those breasts! After all the years, he had at last touched her breasts and that touch blasted all controls.

"Play, Celeste," he urged, bending low over her shoulder and slipping a hand inside his fly to free the feverish hardness from captivity. It bounded huge and grotesque, its tip only inches from touching her shoulder! "I'll mind your posture," he croaked in a thin, brittle voice.

One of his hands cradled under a breast and Celeste let her fingers wander aimlessly through the simple harmonies of a popular tune. The inconspicuous mirror on the console, somehow forgotten by the dean, revealed the drama storming in rigid nakedness at the back of her head. Celeste, totally familiar with the music, was able to focus on the passion in the hand of this beautiful man who had been her coach and teacher of all the many instruments she had learned at Gordon.

It seemed incredible that after all these years, tightly controlled Ulrich Flambeau, who had so repeatedly stressed self-discipline, had at last lost his. And he had! She studied the bared and pulsing erection, gripped in his fist and fierce in the mirror's reflection. Not the first she had seen, but the most wanted. How was it possible that so observant a man could fail to observe the side angle mirror which periscope a perfect image of what he was doing?