Dedication
by Jack Kendle

 

I close the door behind me. We are alone in the classroom; the others aren’t turning up, thanks to the ’flu epidemic. It’s an occupational hazard in my job, but so far this winter I’ve managed to avoid all the colds and bugs that go the rounds.

So have you.

You’re a very healthy sixteen-year-old, haven’t missed a single harmony lesson this term – or last term either, come to think of it. You are seated in your usual place, right in front of my desk. Your long legs stick out in front of you and on more than one occasion this term, your feet and mine have accidentally met. I’m always quick to move mine away and you always murmur an apology. Recently you have blushed slightly when this happens I’ve noticed and once or twice have been quite slow in moving your feet away. I don’t mind, though, because I find you a very attractive specimen of young manhood.

You’ve recently had a growth spurt and are now almost as tall as I am, just on six feet. I’ve also noticed how in recent months you seem to be taking more care over your appearance. I remember when I first began teaching you, when you were aged ten or so, you always looked as if you had been dragged through a hedge backwards; tousled hair, dirty hands and face, shirt-tails flapping, trainers muddy and unlaced, grass-stains on your knees, torn trousers. Nowadays, though, you are neatly dressed, hair well groomed and washed, a nice smell of deodorant and shampoo wafts over to me from you.

I look you over; medium-length blond hair, slightly curly, dark blue eyes, long lashes, a deliciously curved pair of lips, smooth chin (not shaving yet, but there are very faint blond hairs just beginning to be visible on your jaw line). A slim neck disappears behind your tee-shirt, which hugs your boyish torso, so that I can almost count your ribs and also make out the nubs of your nipples. As usual, your tee-shirt isn’t tucked in to your trousers and often I catch glimpses of the waistband of your jockey shorts over the top of your Levi 501’s, which look almost as if they have been tailor-made for you and hug your body in just the right places, accentuating those exciting curves of your boyhood. I’m glad you switched to the jeans from what you used to wear, those shapeless baggy trousers which, quite frankly, didn’t do you justice. You switched to 501’s about six months ago and it has been a constant delight for me to speculate on what those fly-buttons conceal. I just love the way that the top fly-button is always undone, I wonder what kind of fashion statement – or other statement for that matter, that this could be, or whether it’s just laziness on your part. Many a masturbation session I’ve spent on speculating how good it would feel for me to gently open those buttons, slowly, one by one…

I follow your long legs down to your pristine white basketball shoes, loosely laced. You have size twelve feet, I would guess, large for a sixteen-year old. I wonder if the saying about large feet meaning a generous endowment in other areas applies to you? Certainly the bulge in your jeans seems to indicate a quite respectable package! I feel my own package begin to harden. I move quickly to my desk and sit, so that my state of arousal is invisible to you.

“So, it’s just us today,” I say. “What shall we do for the next hour?” A deliberately ambiguous question, almost teasingly said with a gentle smile, but for no apparent reason, you blush, a deep crimson and seem to become confused.

“I… I…” you look down at your fingers as they fold and refold a corner of the page of your textbook.

Why should you suddenly be so embarrassed, I wonder?

I quickly move to rescue the potentially tricky situation.

“Shall we go over some of the finer points of the Mixolydian Mode as exemplified in Messiaen or maybe discuss the implications of the augmented fourth in Schubert’s output?” Again, I keep my tone light, trying to put the suddenly somewhat agitated boy at ease. What is troubling you? You look at me, unsure whether I’m being serious or not. Seeing my look you visibly relax and even manage a slight grin. I love that grin; somewhat lopsided, it reminds me of another boy I knew a long time ago, when I was your age in fact. I dismiss the thought from my mind.

That was then. This is now.

“So, what’s it to be, Ivan?”

Ivan! What a lovely name for this blond bombshell. Conjures up the great (and the terrible) Tsars of all the Russias. In fact, you do have a slight Slavic look to you: high cheekbones, eyes at a slight angle, slightly thin yet expressive lips. Is that your ancestry? Does the blood of Peter the Great or Ivan the Terrible flow in your veins? Are you capable of their cruelty? Do you have any idea of the history behind your name, or is it just something you put up with, blaming your parents for not calling you something ‘normal’ like John or Peter? My lovely ‘Russian’ boy! 

You are silent for a moment, fingers still fidgeting with the pages of an exercise book. Then, almost as if you have come to a momentous decision and with almost an audible sigh, you say: “Actually, er… I wonder if you could look at … look at this, please…” From your case you pull a couple of sheets of manuscript paper and almost shyly hold them out to me. I take the papers from your slender fingers – fingers that I so want to suck. Fingers that I so want to explore my manhood. I am painfully aware of my erection as I take the handwritten sheets from your light grasp.

You have written a short piece of music for piano – your instrument. I look at the title:

“Song Without Words” by Ivan H. Peterson 

Ivan H. Peterson. I know the H stands for Hanes, your mother’s family name and I recall how the other boys teased you when you were younger. The name conjures up images of boys in their underwear and I automatically imagine you stripped to your jockeys, as I have so often done before. I feel my erection harden even more, if that is possible.

The music looks well written, neatly done and harmonically quite interesting. I can see you have a good grasp of harmony, which means you have been paying attention in my classes, I’m glad to see. The piece has a convincing architecture to it; well constructed and logical.

I am partially aware of those blue eyes on me all the time I am studying the notes. You stretch out your legs and his feet meet mine. I pretend not to notice; in fact I hardly do, I’m intently reading his music. I am aware, however, that you don’t move your feet away. They stay where they are, touching mine. I don’t move mine, either.

I ‘listen’ to his melody in my mind’s ear as I follow the notes. It’s a wistful, almost sad tune, with one or two quirky turns, which in fact make it even more memorable. The end is particularly beautiful, seeming to my ears, to end with a question-mark. All-in-all a very good piece, for a sixteen-year-old. Clever boy I think to myself.

Our feet still touching, I look up from the page into your face, which has a hesitant expression on it; eyes wide open, lips slightly parted. You look so damn cute, I could eat you!

“This looks very good, Ivan. Very good indeed!”

You smile at me, your whole face lighting up, eyes sparkling. I feel the tension rush out of you. You’re still blushing, spots of crimson on those smooth cheeks.

“Perhaps you would play it for me?” I hold out the pages for you to take. Our feet are still touching, the moment draws out. Shyly, you take the music from me.

“If you really want…” you start.

“Yes, Ivan. I would like that,” I reply, holding your gaze with mine.

You stand, six feet of slim, adorable boy. My eyes follow you as you move over to the piano. Your jeans hug your butt, the denim stretched over the twin globes I so desperately want to explore. Seating yourself at the keyboardyou look over at me, questioningly.

“Go ahead,” I urge. I can’t get up from my chair while you are still looking over at me, my erection would be only too apparent. You nod slightly, flick the wayward hair from your eyes and turn to the piano to play.

The music starts, almost hesitantly at first, but gradually gaining in confidence as I guess you forget my presence in the room. Now that you’re totally absorbed in your playing, it is safe for me to get out of my chair. My hardness straining against the material of my clothes. I discreetly adjust myself, noting the fact that in my aroused state I am leaking precum into my jockey shorts. I only hope the wet spot does not become visible on my trousers. Whilst you  continue playing your gentle melody, I walk softly over towards you. Standing behind you, I look down and over your head and shoulders. I have an excellent view of your package, which to me, seems larger than usual – does Ivan have a hard-on? I observe you as you play, as I have so often done before. You are lost in your own world now, eyes almost closed, playing from memory. I move in closer behind you. You are used to me being there during our lessons. I lightly place a hand on a shoulder, to gently ease it down. I look at your long neck, the vertebrae standing out as the head bows slightly. My other hand goes to the left shoulder and I stand there, resting my hands on your warm body, gently kneading your shoulders. As usual, you lean slightly backwards. I am ready for this and take a final step forwards you. The back of your blond head rests ever so lightly on my abdomen. I push slightly against you, my hardness so obvious to me, pressing against your back. You continue playing, but there’s a subtle difference in the air. I feel as if you are on ‘autopilot’ and that you are really concentrating on our contact. Probably just wishful thinking, I tell myself. I feel you push against me again, this time there’s no doubt about it; it’s a deliberate movement. Surely you must be able to feel my manhood pressing into your back! Suddenly I feel that some invisible barrier has been lifted, that I have crossed into a new territory, and I am not at all sure, not by a long way, whether I should be there at all. Reluctantly, I remove my hands from your shoulders and step back, putting a foot or so of emptiness between us.

You stop playing, leaving the unfinished piece almost hanging in mid-air.

“Go on, Ivan,” I say, “finish it.”

You look back up at me, a look of absolute devastation on your face. It is ashen-grey and your eyes are moist. Shoulders drooping, you finish the piece, playing beautifully, despite being obviously upset about something. After you finish, there’s a long silence broken finally, shyly:

“Was it alright?” Your head inclines to the pages of music on the piano.

“It was excellent, Ivan,” I reply, gently, wondering why the boy seems so upset.

“What’s the matter, Ivan?” I ask, concerned.

“N-nothing.” You hesitate. My erection has subsided, so it is safe for me to come round the side of you as you sit at the piano. I notice how you steal a very quick sideways glance at my crotch area. I, in turn look down at yours – by now it’s a force of habit – speculating on what lies out of my sight.

I seat myself on the piano-stool beside you. We are shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, I can feel the heat from your youthful body, as I inhale the sweet scent of freshly-washed boy. Again, I feel the familiar stirrings in my loins. Ivan, you and I often sit this close together in our harmony lessons. Ever since I taught you the piano when you were just a small kid, in fact. You are comfortable with this closeness, I know that. I remember I even asked you about it about a year or so ago, whether you minded the proximity of your teacher. I thought I needed to clear the point up, now that you were getting older and more aware of the need for personal space. You said then that you didn’t mind.

However, today, I can feel a sort of electricity in the air, you are trembling slightly. I get the impression you’re as tense as a coiled watch spring, ready to jump up and away at any second. I am reminded of a thoroughbred; nervous before a race, shallow breathing, the trembling, the wide-open eyes, and there’s even a slight sweat on your smooth upper lip.

What is troubling you, my lovely boy today? Is it me? Have I overstepped some invisible barrier, broken some unwritten treaty? Did my hardness make you ill at ease? It’s not as if this was the first time. Now I’m beginning to feel nervous, as I empathize with you. I try to keep calm, I don’t want to frighten you. I definitely ‘spooked’ you, I think.  I will have to tread with the utmost care.

“It’s a very beautiful piece, Ivan,” I repeat. “What inspired you to write it?”

You look at me, chewing your lower lip, still flushed, eyes still a little moist.

“I, er… I just wanted to write a piece to play for you, sir…” you reply, lowering your eyes, avoiding my gaze.

“I’m very flattered, Ivan,” I reply. “It’s beautifully written and I’m wondering what you’re trying to ‘say’ in it.”

You look scared for a moment, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car.

“Say? I … er I…” you fall silent.

“Yes, what the piece means,” I gently try and prompt you. Have I gone too far? I notice you swallow nervously once or twice, but at least you stay seated. In fact I feel a very slight pressure as you lean even closer to me. I fancy I could even feel the beating of your heart, we’re that close to each other. I am wondering whether you can feel my heart, as it hammers inside my chest. How can you not, I wonder?

“I wrote it for you, sir. It’s a … a…” then silence.

I sit as still as I can, hardly daring to breathe. And then, almost inaudibly, in a rush and in a voice thick with emotion come the words that make my senses reel.

“It’s … it’s a love song… I want to dedicate it to you sir… because I…”

You say no more.

You can’t, because my lips are covering yours and we kiss; deep and long and hard.

FINE

 

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