Piercing pressure

Thomas sat at the grand piano, staring at his phone screen, but the feed scrolled past—he wasn't reading, wasn't absorbing, just swiping to occupy his hands and distract his thoughts. The classroom was silent. Official lessons at the music school were over for the day. Outside, a light rain was falling; the air smelled of polish, old wood, and the faint bitterness of unfinished coffee. He was waiting for Alexey.

At first, Thomas didn't even understand why this man affected him so. He had shown up at the parent meeting—rough around the edges, in a work jacket, with a short haircut and the gaze of someone used to solving things immediately, without unnecessary words. He spoke briefly, to the point: "My daughter says you're a good teacher."

— "Thank you." — "I want lessons. Not just for her, but for myself." Thomas was utterly surprised then: it didn't compute that such a down-to-earth man could dream of learning the piano. This dissonance threw him off balance, and a heavy silence hung in the air. "You do have time for me, don't you?" the man asked again, a bit gruffly. Jolted from his shock, Thomas nodded. Since then, every Friday, when the school emptied, the light in Thomas's office stayed on—waiting for Alexey's private lesson.

Finally, 7:05 PM, and a knock came at the door—not polite, but as if the person was used to always being expected.

— Hello, Thomas, — Alexey said in a metallic voice, entering the room and extending his palm for a handshake.

In moments like these, everything inside Thomas froze: he couldn't help but notice his student's hands—impossibly elegant. The fingers—long, slender, with faint bluish veins. The skin was somewhat rough, but the movements… the movements were surprisingly fluid. Like someone accustomed to feeling shape, weight, vibration. Not metal, but, say, a string. Or a key. These hands clearly didn't match his image—his voice, posture, the scent of machine oil and tobacco that always lingered in the room after him. It seemed as if they had been given to him by mistake—as if in a past life he had been a musician, and in this one, he had simply forgotten.

Thomas constantly caught himself in foolishness, watching those fingers move over the keys, how they brushed against his wrist when he corrected Alexey's hand position during lessons. Sometimes, even at night, he remembered how Alexey leaned over the grand piano, and his ears rang not from the notes, but from his own heartbeat.

He was angry with himself. It was absurd—a 27-year-old music teacher so taken with the father of his student! And such a father—rough, straightforward, completely not from his world. At 45, Alexey already resembled a grandfather: somewhat plump, balding, with a dusting of gray in the remaining web of hair.

— I'm a bit late. Got held up at the shift, — Alexey said, entering and shrugging off his jacket.

Nothing had happened between them yet. But in that silence, in the smell of rain and metal, in the clumsy sound of the first note Alexey played, something real was already smoldering. Something alive. And Thomas suddenly understood: he didn't want this to stop.

Alexey snorted:

— I don't see the sun much at the factory.

— All the more reason to play it, then, — Thomas smiled.

He indicated with his fingers:

— Thumb on 'C', index on 'D', middle on 'E'. Try it.

Alexey pressed. The sound came out rather harsh—he was used to pressing, not touching.

— Not like that, — Thomas carefully covered Alexey's hand with his own. — Don't use force. Just… touch. As if you're afraid of waking someone.

It was as if everything inside Thomas froze when he touched those hands, and the thud of his heart became so loud it felt like it was beating not in his chest, but in the tips of his own fingers, which trembled over Alexey's elegant hand.

— There, — Thomas immediately withdrew his hand, as if burned, scolding himself for such a strange reaction.

— Play slower… Feel each note. Don't rush. Music isn't work at a lathe.

To put it mildly, Alexey wasn't doing well.

— You're too tense. Relax your wrists… like this.

Thomas had to take his hand again, gently turn it. Hot skin, exquisite fingers—and his pulse thundered loudly in his body once more.

Thomas blushed. The room suddenly felt stuffy. He jumped up, opened the window, sat back down, nervously adjusted the buttons of his cardigan, then stood up, closed the window, and sank down next to Alexey.

— Alexey, do you mind if I take off my cardigan? — he asked nervously and, without waiting for an answer, abruptly moved away and pulled off the garment.

Alexey's expression changed: his eyebrows drew together, the corners of his mouth turned down. He didn't understand where all this fuss was coming from. He began to think that this refined young man, who looked more like a girl, felt aversion towards him—towards him, an ordinary working man.

Alexey abruptly pushed the bench back, and the sound of metal legs scraping on linoleum cut through the classroom silence.

Alexey walked to the exit, roughly pulled on his jacket, zipped it up to his throat—as if trying to lock himself away from everything happening in this room.

— That's enough, — he threw out, not looking at Thomas. — I'm not your student.

Thomas stood dumbfounded.

— I think you're just tolerating me. Like I'm disturbing your… refined atmosphere. Some kid with glasses, a face like a girl from ballet school, sitting here thinking: 'God, this factory oaf is pawing my grand piano again.'

Thomas felt his cheeks flush. He hadn't expected that his attention, caution, and glances could be read as disdain.

— Alexey, wait! — Thomas's voice trembled.

Without thinking, he rushed after him. Too fast, too impulsively. His shoes slipped on the smooth floor, and trying to grab Alexey by the shoulder, he lost his balance.

— Careful! — escaped him—too late.

They both tumbled to the floor: Alexey on his side, Thomas on top, instinctively putting out his hands to avoid crushing him completely.

Thomas felt the heat and how his body tensed when the flesh in his trousers pressed firmly against Alexey.

— You… — burst from Alexey's lips with fury. His face reddened, distorted with anger. Agitated, he roughly shoved Thomas off, grabbed him by the scruff, pulled his own dormant but powerful member from his pants, and with a sharp movement began thrusting it into Thomas's face.

Yielding to the moment, Thomas opened his mouth and began sucking on this wrinkled piece of flesh, which instantly began to swell and transform into a powerful shaft. He took it all the way to the base, holding it with one hand at the root while the other caressed Alexey's testicles. His mouth filled with saliva, which dripped down his chin with every movement of his head. The process aroused him so much that his body responded, and his own tense friend was ready to tear through the fabric of his trousers, painfully pressing against the head.

But suddenly—a sharp jerk. Alexey, unable to bear the mounting tension, pulled himself out of Thomas's mouth with a loud, wet sound. A storm raged in his chest: every cell demanded release, but he didn't want to finish like that—not now, not here, not just in a mouth.

— Well then, let's continue your games! — he said, already changing position. Pinning his young teacher from behind, he pulled down his trousers and began with one elegant palm to spread his buttocks, while pressing his shaft against the tight opening of the anus with the other.

Thomas felt a piercing pain and let out loud moans that echoed through the music room. The member was so large that his untried passage refused to open and accept the head.

— Shut your mouth! — Alexey shouted.

Firmly gripping Thomas's hips and not easing the pressure, he began thrusting his impressive organ with sharp jabs until it disappeared into his partner's flesh and his testicles pressed against the perineum.

For the first time, Thomas felt what it meant to take a man's essence into himself, and he felt a heat spreading throughout his body, along with an indescribable pleasure alternating with pain. He felt his fingers trembling as Alexey began actively controlling his movements, making his whole body slide against him.

Thomas bit his lip each time he met this beast, secretly thrilled to let it fill every cell of him. He felt the invasion stretching him from the inside—agonizingly and sweetly. The heat spread more intensely from the very entrance inward, as if his body were coming alive. His trembling fingers began to claw at the floor, leaving marks on the linoleum. A moan caught in his throat, which he stubbornly stifled by biting his own lip.

It was these sounds—muffled, broken, full of pain and pleasure—that drove Alexey mad. They pierced his hearing, bringing him ever closer to climax. With each thrust, he felt the tension in his body heating to the limit. The deeper and harder the invasion—the louder the cry became.

Unable to withstand such an onslaught, Thomas's body was pierced by convulsions after half a minute, and he came. His partner followed, releasing a hot stream inside the frail, trembling body.

— Until next Friday.

And he left, leaving Thomas lying on the floor—trembling from the experienced ecstasy and the semen leaking onto the linoleum.