The Music Room

By Jacqueline Jillinghoff

It was a yucky day. It was cold, and like my granddad always says, the rain was really coming down. The soccer field in front of my school looked like a big bowl of grass soup. All afternoon, the clouds were so dark you could see your reflection on the inside of the classroom windows. I was glad to be inside, and I felt warm and safe in the music room, even if I was about to play the flute in front of an auditorium full of kids.

I think I told you my dad plays the cello. Well, my mom’s a musician, too. She plays the oboe, and my whole life they’ve been trying to get me to take up an instrument. Daddy says if I get good enough, I’ll have something I can always fall back on. That means make money. First, they tried to get me into piano, but I never practiced. Then I switched to the flute, and that hasn’t been too bad. At least I don’t have to try to make my hands do two things at once, though it makes my lips tired.

My parents must have told Mrs. Dietrich I can play. She’s the moderator of the band at the middle school, and as soon as she found out about me, she tried to get me to join up. I told her I didn’t want to, and she asked me if I could at least play a solo in the holiday concert. Mom and Dad said I should do it. They said it would give me some experience playing in front of people, and it would help me decide whether I wanted to join the band. I already told them I wasn’t interested, but I said yes just to get everybody off my back.

So I was sitting in the music room, which is behind the stage in the auditorium, watching the rain pitter-patter on the windows. It was near the end of the program. The band was playing that Sleigh Ride song. I like the song a lot, but the band was awful. They couldn’t stay together, and the kids shaking the jingle bells never found the beat.

I held my flute to my lips, ran my fingers up and down the holes and blew — just enough to make sure of my embouchure, but not enough to make any sound. I couldn’t keep my leg still: I ground my toe into the floor, like I was squashing a bug, and pumped my heel and knee and thigh up and down, fast. It was like all the energy in my body was draining out through my foot. My chest was quivering, too — you know, the way it does after you cry? I was scared I wouldn’t be able to breathe right when I got out there.

I wanted to run off to the girls’ room. I learned how great I could feel in September when I took off all my clothes in the school library and ran around the hall naked. Touching myself is incredible. I’ve been doing it a lot since. It really relaxes me, and if I ever needed it, I needed it now, but I didn’t have time. I had to play my solo right after the band finished its next Christmas song.

But once I get the idea, I can’t wait. I knew I was going to try, right then and there. It’s hard, though, when you’re fully dressed, and besides, there was another kid in the room. His name was Evan. He was a drummer, a really good one, and he was supposed to go on when I was done. He wasn’t paying any attention to me. He was sitting at little piano along the other wall, bobbing his head and rapping the lid with his sticks, getting in the zone for his big finale. Mrs. Dietrich was saving the best for last. Half the time he had his eyes closed, but even when he opened them, I don’t think he could see my skirt or my lap. The piano was between us, with its rough wood back facing me, and all I could only see down to his eyebrows. He wasn’t paying any attention, anyway.

I tried rubbing myself through my skirt, but I could hardly feel anything. It was a heavy red tartan that came down to my knees. The fabric was thick and didn’t give at all. I was all dressed up for the occasion, which is something else I didn’t like about playing in public. Besides my skirt I had on a fuzzy sweater with a loose, rolling turtleneck, my sexiest chained white knee socks, and my shiniest black Mary Janes. My hair was brushed within an inch of its life, straight back, and held down under a wide headband. The band and the sweater were this robin’s egg blue. Mom says the color matches my eyes.

Anyway, poking through the skirt wasn’t working, so I tried to reach underneath, keeping my eyes glued on Evan in case he ever got a clue. That didn’t work, either, because I had to stretch my arm too far to get under the hem, or else pull my skirt all the way up my legs.

It hit me that I could put my flute to much better use than just blowing off some sour notes. I slid my skirt halfway up my thighs and angled the mouthpiece in between my legs.

The round rim at the end bumped over Sally Ann. That’s my name for my you-know-what. Sally Ann is a curly-haired doll. She was my best friend when I was little (she’s still on a shelf in my room), and I named my new best friend after her. When I closed my legs around my flute, Sally Ann — the new one —sent that wonderful oozy feeling all the way down my legs. My shoes were new and stiff, and they creaked quietly when I bunched up my toes.

I jiggled the flute up and down, slightly so you could barely see it, but the feeling grew really big really fast. So good and so fast I didn’t notice the band had stopped and the applause had died down until a man’s voice said, “Miss Rohde, you’re on.”

I froze, gripping my flute in both hands. Evan stopped drumming and looked at me with bug eyes over the top of the piano. Mr. Master, our principal, was standing at the top of the short staircase that goes up to the backstage door. He was holding a clipboard. “Time to play,” he said.

Mr. Master is gi-normous. He’s six feet eight inches tall, and I know that because in September, at our first sixth-grade assembly, he got up onstage to welcome us to middle school, and the first thing he said was, “I am your principal, Mr. Master, and to answer the question uppermost on your minds, I am six feet eight inches tall.” He has huge hands and huge feet, and standing up at the top of the steps like that, he looked like the Statue of Liberty on her pedestal.

I took my flute out of my crotch and got up, smoothing out my skirt. My legs were shaky, but I made it to the top of the stairs, brushing against Mr. Master as I passed him. He flicked my hair aside and laid his hand on my bare neck and said, “You’ll do fine.”

His hand was warm, and the way I was feeling, it almost made me faint.

I went through the gap in the black curtains. The band was still onstage. The kids were elbow-to-elbow. I took high, careful steps over their feet, turning sideways, feeling my way holding my flute over my head, but just when I thought I was in the clear, my foot caught the leg of a music stand, and I stumbled into the spotlight, smacking a cymbal on Evan’s drum set. Pish! Somehow I stopped myself from falling, but the laughs came anyway. Mrs. Dietrich was standing to the side, out of the spotlight. She raised her hand, and the kids quieted down.

I squinted into the auditorium. The spotlight was blinding. My eyelashes broke up the glare into a crazy, spinning rainbow. Everyone out front was in shadow. Somebody coughed. A cell phone went off — dee-beep! dee-beep dee-beep! — but that was it. The only other noise was the blood throbbing in my ears. My arms and legs and face were tingling, just like they did when I took my clothes off in the library, except this wasn’t fun. My flute was smeary from the sweat on my hands. The reflection from the metal hurt my eyes. My fingers were trembling. I clamped them over the holes to make them stop. I licked my lips, which didn’t help because my tongue was so dry. Then I raised the blowhole to my mouth and puckered.

That’s all I remember. The next thing I knew, I was back on the chair in the music room, bent over the floor, staring at my feet and crying. I was holding my flute against my stomach. Mr. Master was standing over me, telling me it was OK, I’d do better next time. I couldn’t make myself look at him. A drop of water fell off my nose and went pap! on the floor. Evan was already onstage, rocking the house.

The way kids talked about it later, I stood there a long time — a minute, some of them said, but it was probably only a few seconds. I blew once, but all I got was a squeak. Then I ran away. That was my debut as a flutist. Or a flautist, or whatever the fuck it’s called.

And the worst part was, playing for the students was only the warm-up. The real performance, for everybody’s parents and grandparents, was tomorrow night. Mr. Master kept telling me I’d do fine tomorrow.

“I don’t wanna,” I mumbled, sniffling.

“No, you want to,” he said. “Your parents will be here. You want to do it for them.”

“No’a’won’,” I mumbled.

He put his enormous hand on my shoulder, but I jerked away, spinning sideways in the chair like a sulky brat.

The kids out front started to cheer. Evan clomped down the backstage stairs.

“You hear that?” his voice said.

“I did.” Mr. Master said. “You were excellent.”

“Oh no. Oh God,” I whimpered.

“What’s the matter, honey?” Mr. Master said.

“They’re on the last thing. All the kids will be coming back.”

“It’s not bad,” he said. “They won’t laugh.”

“Please,” I said.

He thought a second.

“Come with me,” he said, and he took me by the arm and led me across the room. “Don’t tell anyone where she is,” he told Evan.

In the corner, between the windows and the little upright piano, was a green door I hadn’t noticed before. Inside was a practice room that looked like nobody used it. It was soundproofed, so the walls and the ceiling and even the door were covered with white tiles, the kind with the holes in them. There was an electronic keyboard with a bench and a straight-back chair with a music stand in front of it. There was also a green metal desk covered with messy papers, and cardboard boxes crammed with file folders were stacked against a wall. It smelled sour. But at least there were windows, and I could watch the rain.

“You can sit in here,” Mr. Master said. “Take as long as you like. I’ll be back.”

I sat down on the straight-back chair. The soundproofing didn’t work much. I heard scuffling as the kids came offstage, and chatter and the music cases clicking open and shut. Somebody shouted something, and everybody laughed. Then I heard an adult woman’s voice — it was Mrs. Dietrich. She sounded mad, and everybody got quiet. I bet they were laughing about me, and she was telling them to shut up.

That’s all I heard for a long time. I waited for Mr. Master to come back and tell me it was safe to come out again, but he never did. I still had my flute with me, so I tried practicing the piece I should have played — it’s called “The Children Are Playing.” My dad chose it, and it is pretty and really not too hard, but I only did it in bits and pieces.

I sat there for like fifteen minutes before I figured out Mr. Master had forgotten about me.

I got up, laying my flute carefully on the seat, and went back into the music room. Somebody had turned off the lights. And right away I thought, hey, wow, the school is empty, and I’m all alone.

In September, when I want out in the hall naked, I was trying to make it to the auditorium when I almost got caught. Now I was already there, and nobody was around — not even any horny eighth-graders.

I argued with myself, but it was just a game. I already knew which side was going to win. Part of me was like, No, I shouldn’t. No, I can’t. No, I won’t. And the other part of me was like, Yeah, you’re going to. You know you are.

I unbuttoned my skirt. It was so stiff it stood up around my feet when it slid off my butt. I stepped out of it and then took off my panties over my shoes. I stood there for a minute, holding up my sweater and looking at my puffy slit.

I still don’t have any hair, and I like it that way. Take a log of pretzel dough, bend it in half and pinch the ends together, and you’ll have a good idea of what my pussy looks like. It has the same soft, white rolls on either side and that shadowy gutter in the middle. It’s completely fascinating to me. I never get tired of looking at it — in the bathroom mirror after a shower, in bed in the morning in my nightie and no panties, or standing in the music room in just a sweater, shoes and socks.

My sweater crackled when I took it off. For the second it was wrapped around my head, I saw tiny blue flashes in the dark. It turned inside out when I pulled it over my head, and the static kind of sucked up my hair and made it frizz up. The fabric was fuzzy and scratchy. It felt good to get rid of it. I shook my head and ran my fingers through my hair. It’s pale blonde and long enough to reach between my shoulder blades. Mom says it’s pretty when I brush it.

I wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a bra. It was my first one, and the first time I ever wore it. Mom bought it for me. She said it would make me feel like a grownup if I wore it onstage, but now it just felt tight.

I couldn’t undo the hooks in back. Mom put the thing on me that morning, so I never got to practice. (When she was strapping me in, she called me big girl. She can’t have meant it literally. I don’t even need a bra. My titties, such as they are, stand up all by themselves.) I reached behind and tried pulling at the hooks. Then I tried pushing at them, to lift them out of the round things they stick into. Nothing happened. I got so frustrated I just wriggled out of the shoulder straps and rolled the stupid thing down my body.

Free at last! I raised my arms into a T and spun around, loving the touch and the flow of the air all over me. I squatted, and the air cooled off the sweat between my legs. I reached all the way underneath and touched my asshole, and then I drew my middle finger forward along the pink gash. I was already wet, and my body shivered when my fingertip slid over Sally Ann.

“Save you for later,” I said, and I stood up.

Leaving my clothes all in a messy pile, I skipped like a baby girl across the room, ran up the stairs and walked out onstage. I was still wearing my shoes — I didn’t want to fiddle with the buckles when I got dressed again — and they boomed on the floor as I walked between the music stands. I was standing next to the drums again, only without the spotlight. And I was naked. The auditorium was dim. There’s a row of windows high up on the wall on one side that let in the gray light from the rainy afternoon.

“Boys and girls,” I said out loud. (Who cares? Nobody was around.) “I know I fucked up with the flute. Yeah, I said Fucked up! So to make up for it, I’m going to dance naked, which the boys will like better anyway.”

I did one of those poses with my fists on my hips, one hip stuck out far to the side, like a real model.

“See my little titties? Wanna look at my ass?”

I turned around and bent over and gave the crowd in my head a good look. I reached around and patted it. It’s not much, but I like the way it feels — soft and firm at the same time, and smooth, like the rest of me.

There’s this Christmas commercial on TV this year with a bunch of little girls rapping about how much they love their sweaters and stuff, and after I heard it a couple times, I made up my own lyrics. I sang them right there:

Fuck!

I’m wired!

My pussy is on fire!

Hey, mom and dad, guess what?

One two three four

Not gonna wear clothes anymore

I love my naked it body

I love my naked body

How cute are these boobs?

How cute are these boobs?

Forget the bras and panties

Forget the bras and panties

I want to be nude.

I want to be nude!

Nude! Ah — ah — ah Nude!

I did the dance, too, rolling my hips and walking in place, jumping up and down and switching my legs each time, reaching up and waving my hands. I pushed my tits together for some cleavage. It was like my millionth try, and I still didn’t have any, but they are so much fun to touch.

I was still twirling and posing when the wind shook the windows. I shut up, listening for other sounds. I crossed my arms over my titties — like it would help. Then I heard it: a rattling like somebody was testing to see if a door was locked. In the corner at the back of the hall, I saw the door starting to open. I didn’t see who opened it, and I didn’t wait to find out. I got out of there fast, kicking Evan’s bass drum with a big boom! as I ran off.

I wasn’t really scared, not like when that eighth-grader saw me. I had plenty of time to throw on my sweater and pull up my skirt — Forget the bras and panties! Forget the bras and panties! — before whoever it was came all the way back, if they ever did. When they found me I could just say I forgot my flute. And almost getting caught is a huge part of the fun of running around nude, anyway. The next time I sat in the auditorium, I could look at the stage and remember being naked up there, and none of the other kids would know it happened.

I was giggling as I raced down the stairs and across the music room to the spot where I left my clothes. There was nothing there. I looked behind the piano where Evan had sat, thinking maybe I had kicked them under the bench. They weren’t there, either.

They had to be somewhere. I picked the piano bench up off the floor and stared, like looking harder would make them appear out of nowhere. Nope. Not there.

I put the bench down and checked the floor all around the piano, every inch, even underneath it, getting down on my hands and knees with my face on the floor and my bare butt in the air.

I ran over to the chair I had been sitting in during the concert. Only my flute case was there.

“No no no,” I whined quietly. Now I was panicking. “Oh, no. No no. They’re here. They gotta be here. Oh God oh God oh God.”

I looked under all the fold-up chairs. I ran my eyes all over the floor and the bottom of the walls.

“Well, they just didn’t get up and walk away, did they?” my mom always said.

Something else was wrong, too: The room was brighter than it was before. That’s it: the lights were on. I stared up at the ceiling, and it was just getting through my pretty blonde head what it meant when a man’s voice said, “Looking for these?”

Mr. Master was standing at the top of the staircase, bigger than ever, holding my clothes in a tiny ball in one of his giant hands.

I ran into the practice room and slammed the door.

I expected him to push his way in. He could have. I was leaning with all my might against the door, but I don’t have any might. I was just a skinny, naked kid. If he wanted to push the door open, he would have slid me across the floor in my slippery shoes. But he didn’t do it. Instead, he knocked — softly, but right in my ear.

“Miss Rohde,” he said on the other side. “You might as well come out. You can’t go anywhere without your clothes, and I’ve got all night.”

“Can you give me my clothes through the door?”

“I don’t see why I should,” he said. “I tell you what. If you come out, I promise I won’t tell your parents your naughty little secret. If you don’t, well, we’ll have to reassess.”

Well, why not? I used to let my dad see me naked. It was a long time ago, but I hadn’t developed at all, except that I was taller. There wasn’t anything to see. And if I did what he said, my mom and dad wouldn’t know.

I took a deep breath and went out. Mr. Master stepped back. He looked at me all over, holding my clothes in a rumpled blue and red ball. I couldn’t see my panties, but my bra hung down like a string on a balloon. I just stood with my arms at my sides. There was no point trying to cover up.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, but I couldn’t resist,” Mr. Master said. “The look on your face was priceless. I came back to check on you and I found these clothes, just lying there on the floor with nobody in them. I looked out on the stage as you were starting your, ah, act, and I thought I’d have a little fun. Now why were you running around my school with no clothes on?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You don’t know? You kids never know why you do stupid things. Let me guess. You were embarrassed and upset about the concert, and you thought you’d blow off a little steam. Is that it?”

“I guess.”

“Have you done this before?”

So he knew.

“You might as well tell the truth. Have you done this before? In the library, maybe?”

I couldn’t look him in the eye anymore. I glanced down.

“Thought so,” he said. “Just a moment.”

There was a telephone on the wall next to the door that led out to the corridor. Mr. Master went over and beeped in a couple of numbers. While it was ringing, he dropped my clothes on the floor next to my chair. I started to walk over, but he held up a finger and I stopped.

“Arielle?” he said into the phone. “Warren. We got her... Her ... Yes! Caught her in the act ... It was Danielle. You were right ... Onstage in the auditorium this time ... No, the place was empty, but she was putting on quite a show. We should have her do that for the parents ... Down in the music room ... Oh, she’s still nude. I have her clothes, but she looks very sweet in her shoes and socks ... The only question now is what to do with her ... Oh, of course. We might not get another chance if she has too much time to think ... Okay, great.”

He hung up.

“We heard the story about a girl running around naked, but there was nothing we could do,” he told me. “The boy who told us about it couldn’t describe you, except to say you had a nice ass. It even got back to some parents. They wanted us to do something. I don’t know what they expected, maybe an anti-naked policy or something, but without anything more to go on, we couldn’t follow up. We could hardly ask every girl in the school with a nice ass if she was the one. I’m tempted to tell all the parents who you are, just so they know we’re doing our job.”

It wasn’t cold, but I started to shiver. Then I started to shake — hard. I couldn’t stop. I crossed my arms over my tits and hugged myself, trying to calm down, but it only got worse. My face felt frozen and my breath came out in loud gasps.

Mr. Master saw how scared I was. He came over and put his arms around me.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said. “Nothing bad is going to happen. I think you might like what we have planned.”

His arms and his body felt warm and safe. I snuggled against him. My face only came up to his stomach. One of his big hands went gently down my back and was covering my ass when the door opened and Mrs. Cohen came in.

“Starting without me?” she said.

“Our young exhibitionist is a little apprehensive,” Mr. Master said. “She was actually shaking. I was comforting her.”

“Maybe she’s cold. Are you cold?”

I shook my head, staring at her. Mr. Master kissed the top of my head. He had to bend over.

Mrs. Cohen is the school librarian, and I think she’s pretty. She has big breasts, wide hips and a round ass, and frizzy reddish brown hair. She’s not much taller than I am, and Mr. Master made us both look like shrimps. Her legs are short and thick, I guess you’d say, but they’re shaped nice. She had on a short gray skirt and a matching sweater top. She had rings on every finger, gold hoop earrings, and dark lipstick.

“So you’re the little scamp who was running around naked in my library,” she said.

So it’s like Mr. Master thinks he owns the school, and Mrs. Cohen thinks she owns the library.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said quietly.

“She always calls me ma’am. She’s so polite,” Mrs. Cohen said. “Were you hiding in the stacks when I called you before I locked up?”

I nodded.

“And you didn’t answer me?”

I shook my head.

“And did you already have your clothes off? ... Well?”

“I, uh, I had my pants pulled down.”

“Oh, you little pitsele” she said. “I wish I’d found you. You know, when I was new on this job, I ran naked through the library, too.”

“Really?” I said.

“Oh yeah, just to make it mine. To inaugurate it. We could have had fun.”

“You never told me that,” Mr. Master said. “Is that true?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Mr. Master let go of me. He stood me in the middle of the floor, and he and Mrs. Cohen started talking about me like I wasn’t there.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” he said.

“I love them when they’re this age. So smooth.”

Mr. Master swiveled me around by the shoulders.

“Pretty behind, too,” he said. “It’s not exactly what you’d call a bubble butt, though, is it? You’re the librarian. Give me a word for it.”

“Convex. Lenticular.”

“No, her breasts are lenticular. Shallow and gently rounded. Like contact lenses. What do you think we should do with her?”

“We could call her parents,” Mrs. Cohen said.

“I already promised her I wouldn’t,” Mr. Master said. “It’s the only way I could get her to come out of the practice room.”

“We could spank that sweet little tuckus.”

“Don’t say that. She’s all tense now.”

“Sit her down,” Mrs. Cohen said. “I’ll soften her up.”

I thought “soften up” meant she was going to hit me, but it was a lot nicer than that. Mr. Master put my chair in the middle of the room and sat me down like Mrs. Cohen said. She went behind me and rubbed my shoulders. I tried to squirm away from her, but she jerked me back and started over. She had strong hands, and in less than a minute she turned me into rubber. I went limp all over, and my head was flopping and rolling around.

“That’s it. You got her,” Mr. Master said.

He knelt down in front of me and unbuckled my shoes. They came off with a faint sucking sound and a whiff of leather and foot sweat, and then he was holding and pressing my feet though my socks with his big, strong hands.

I can make myself feel really great touching myself, but I can’t touch myself like this, massaging my shoulders and my feet at the same time.

Mr. Master’s hands went up my leg. He could wrap them all the way around my skinny thighs. Mrs. Cohen reached down in front and pressed her hands flat over my titties.

“You like that, baby?” she whispered in my ear. Her breath sent a chill down my side. “Hmm? Does that make you feel good?”

“Uh ... huh...” I said.

“You think she’s ready?” Mrs. Cohen said quietly.

“Yeah, I don’t think she’ll mind,” Mr. Master said.

Mr. Master lifted me off the chair. He carried me over to the piano and laid me across the top. The black wood was flat and hard and cold against my back, and it was cramped, too, just wide enough to hold me. My feet dangled over the sides. But it gave them a platform where they could get at me. The piano’s only about four or five feet high. Mr. Master towered over it. He separated my knees gently. He puckered up and blew a steady stream of air over my slit. He was right. I didn’t mind.

I rolled my head to the side, and there was Mrs. Cohen standing next to me. The piano came up to her boobs. She kissed me on the mouth and lightly touched my lips with her tongue. She ran her hands all over me and kissed my nipples: they were hard and pointed, and the pink circles around them were crinkly and sensitive. She sucked at them and swirled her fat wet tongue over them. That delicious tight feeling started again in my tits and went right down to my pussy. I angled my crotch up, trying to catch more of the air from Mr. Master’s lips. I wanted something hard touching me there, like my fingers, and all he gave me was this little tickling. I reached down kind of automatically to touch myself, but Mr. Master moved my hand away. I whimpered and sighed. It was torture.

But if I couldn’t touch myself, I could touch one of them. I reached out and cupped my hand on the side of Mrs. Cohen’s boob. Her sweater was fuzzy, like mine, with a thick padded bra under it, but I could feel the fleshy round bubble wobble under the layers.

She stopped sucking my tit and looked at me.

“You want to see?” she said. She sounded as excited as I was. I nodded quickly.

“What is it?” Mr. Master said.

“She wants a look.”

I don’t think I’m gay, but I was a lot more curious about Mrs. Cohen’s body than about Mr. Master’s. I wasn’t thinking of seeing him naked, but I really wanted to compare myself to her. She stepped back and unbuttoned her sweater. She was wearing a shiny black bra that covered up her boobs completely. She took off the sweater and dropped it on the floor, then reached behind with both hands and unhooked the straps. The bra just popped off.

“You gotta show me how to do that,” I said. “I can’t work mine right.”

“You’ll learn,” she said. “You’ll learn everything.”

Her breasts looked bigger naked, like they were set free. Her nipples stuck out far, and they were flat at the ends, like those tiny soup cans they put on keychains, and the circles around them took up the whole front of her breasts.

“Wow!” I said. “Will mine get like that?”

“I don’t think so, honey,” she said. “I’ve seen your mother. I think you’re going to be tall and slender. Your breasts will be smaller, but they’ll be beautifully shaped.”

“Can I touch them?”

“Give me your hands.”

She took them and placed one over each boob.

“So soft,” she said. “Now take them in between your fingers like this and pinch. Pinch hard. God, yes. Now pull on them. Pull them out far. Twist them. Don’t be afraid to hurt me. Don’t be... Ah!”

I was amazed: her nipples stretched out in my hands like Silly Putty. My nipples would never do that. They’re so small it’s hard even to pinch them.

I played with her like that a long time, stretching and snapping, until I guess Mr. Master got bored and wanted to do something besides blow on my slit. He took hold of my ankles and lifted my feet to the top of the piano, flexing my knees and opening my vagina way up. He lowered his face between my legs.

I remember thinking, “Is he gonna do what I think he’s gonna —” And then the stars went off in my eyes. His tongue washed over my pussy, separating my outer lips, then my inner lips, and sliding across that tiny bump that feels better than anything in the whole world. It was almost too much. Almost.

Mr. Master always looks like he needs a shave at the end of the day. The stubble on his lip scratched me on the tender part near the top of my slit, but that just made everything more ... uh ... interesting.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” That was me, moaning in my whiniest little-girl voice. Every time I did it, Mr. Master pushed his face harder into my crotch, which made me do it more. Now I know what goes on in my parents’ room at night when I hear their bed creaking and my dad grunting and my mom squealing. I’m glad they do it, if it feels that good for them. I always want everybody to feel this good all the time — especially me.

I pinched Mrs. Cohen’s nips tighter. She cupped her hand under one of her big boobs and lifted it into my mouth. She didn’t have to have to tell me what to do: I sucked on her nipple and her big brown circle as hard as I could. I was like a double pump, sucking at both ends — pulling Mrs. Cohen’s tit into my mouth and clenching at Mr. Master’s tongue with my pussy.

“Jesus! Look at that!” Mrs. Cohen said. “She loves to — oh, I can’t stand it.”

Her hand went down the front of her skirt. With my mouth full of her tit, I couldn’t see what she was doing, but if she was anything like me, I could guess. I sort of grinned around her nipple.

So I wasn’t the only one who liked to touch myself.

It was a good thing I had her titty in my mouth. It was like a pacifier that kept me from getting too loud when I started to scream. I went off like Mmmmfff! Mfffff! Mfffff! Mffff! in a high shrieky voice when it happened. And OMG, did it happen — bigger and louder and longer than ever, even in the library when I was so excited and scared. I mean, I love it all the time, and it’s great when I do it myself, but something about having somebody touch you and lick you places you can’t reach, and all the massaging and kissing — it makes me hot just to think about it.

Mrs. Cohen, the only one who didn’t have her mouth full, was babbling something about her tits and how she was coming and how I was coming and everything. I don’t remember. I don’t remember much except those incredible feelings shooting all through me — naked in nothing but socks and coming on top of a piano with my school principal eating me and the librarian’s tit in my mouth.

The lights in the ceiling were spinning. I was breathing through my mouth, so I guess I let go of Mrs. Cohen’s breast. She was kissing me on my face and neck and shoulders and chest.

“Are you OK, sweetie?” she said.

“Mm-hm,” I said. I didn’t feel like talking.

“How about you?” she said to Mr. Master.

“I am incredibly hard,” he said.

“What’s that mean?” I asked. It sounded bad.

“It means I have to take care of him,” she said.

“What’s that mean?”

“How come she can’t take care of me?” he said.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Warren —”

“Can she at least watch?”

“You want to watch, Sweetie?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“Real enthusiasm there,” Mr. Master said.

“What do you expect? The poor girl is exhausted.”

“Yeah, but she’s happy.”

Mr. Master went over to the chair. Sometime while he had his mouth on me, he undid his pants. They were hanging around his knees, and he held them up to keep them from dropping any more. It was funny to watch him, because he had to take these tiny steps, like a penguin, but I swallowed my laugh when I saw his big dick sticking out like a footlong hoagie, with bumps and ridges all along it. Hanging under it was a soft, bristly bag with a pair of long, hard lumps inside. His hair down there was black, with some gray in it.

Mom has told me about sex, but nothing she said prepared me for this. The first thing I thought was, That’s supposed to go in me? It would tear me apart. Maybe I’d be better if I was gay.

But it was cool to look at, bobbing as he took those tiny steps across the room. Even Mrs. Cohen had to laugh.

“Sorry,” she said. “I hope I didn’t ruin the mood.”

“Impossible,” he said. “Not while I can look at that naked little thing.”

Me? I did that?

Mr. Master fell back in the chair, and Mrs. Cohen knelt in front of him. She hid his penis. All I could see was her naked back and her ponytail. She looked silly in her skirt and shoes. He did, too, with his pants around his ankles, but his face suddenly got real serious, and I knew he was feeling something close to what Mrs. Cohen and I felt a few minutes ago...

I sat up on the piano and craned my neck for a better look, but I couldn’t see anything, so I jumped down and went around to the side.

She had his big stiff penis half in her mouth. I think that’s as far as she could go. Her cheeks were sunk in, like she was sucking, and she was holding the bottom of his pole with one hand, pulling on it as she moved her head up and down.

“Can I try?” I said.

“A very ... very cu ... curious nature,” Mr. Master said. “The hall ... uhhh ... hallmark of a fir ... first-class student. Uh!”

Mrs. Cohen took her mouth off his dick, but she kept pumping him slowly.

“I don’t think we should let her,” she said. “Sucking her off is one thing, but —”

“Please?” I said. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

“It’s not a question of being careful.”

“Oh, let the girl try, Ari. We’ve come this far.”

“Please, Mrs. Cohen?” I said.

“Yeah, please Mrs. Cohen?” Mr. Master said. “Pretty please?”

Mrs. Cohen scooted over and waved me in. I slid over in my socks and knelt down beside her. She bent Mr. Master’s dick toward me. It was shiny with her spit, and it looked really big close up.

“Just put your mouth over the tip and wiggle your tongue on the underside, “ Mrs. Cohen said. “Don’t try to take it in all at once.”

“What’s it taste like?” I said.

“Nothing. It’s just like sucking your thumb. But —”

“What?”

“Nothing. We’ll get to it.”

My mouth isn’t as big as Mrs. Cohen’s, and it was hard to get it around Mr. Master’s penis. I had to open up real wide. But I managed. I kind of folded my lips back over my teeth so I wouldn’t scrape him and I went down on him until he was his thing was knocking against the back of my throat. I gagged and took my mouth away.

“I told you not to do too much,” Mrs. Cohen said. “Here, just lick it like this.”

She flicked her tongue around the top, especially the wrinkly spot on the bottom where the knob and the pole come together. I tried it, too, and it was fun because our tongues were touching and licking each other. Soon we were really kissing, except we had this slimy thing in between us. We were lined up from side to side — two mouths and a penis between. I slid my tongue from her mouth to his dick and back and we took turns putting our mouths over it. Our spit got all over our chins and dribbled down to his sack in white, bubbly beads.

Mrs. Cohen wrapped my hand around his penis and guided it up and down until I was working it on my own, jerking him off — that’s what it’s called, Mrs. Cohen said — while we kissed the tip from each side.

I was more turned on by kissing Mrs. Cohen than by giving my first blow job —Mrs. Cohen told me about that, too — but I liked it a lot that I was just a dorky little sixth-grade girl and he was the big scary principal, and my mouth on his dick was driving him nuts.

Then I found out what Mrs. Cohen meant when she said, “We’ll get to it.” It would have been nice if she had told me was going to happen. We had a nice rhythm going — kiss-lick-suck, kiss-lick-suck, kiss-lick-suck, me on one side, her on the other — and I was wondering how it was going to end. Do guys feel like girls do? They have to, ‘cause Mr. Master was really digging it. He had his head back and his eyes half closed (he was still looking down at us), and he was moaning and breathing funny, just like he made me do. I was jacking him, and I thought maybe I could try to take him all the way in again. I put my lips around the end of his penis and pushed down on him with my hand, and all of the sudden he let out a loud cry like a walrus. I was scared I hurt him, and just when I took my mouth away a hot stream of gunk shot into my face. I stopped everything, but Mrs. Cohen said, “Keep going, baby” and put her hand over mine and got me started jacking him again.

Mr. Master was going “Uh! Uh! Uh!” His dick was throbbing in my hand, and with each throb another blob of goo shot out. The second one hit me in the chest. I pointed his dick away from me, and the third shot got Mrs. Cohen in the tits. We started laughing. It was so funny, watching his stuff go all over like a gusher.

“Sorry, baby, I should have warned you,” Mrs. Cohen said.

“Wow. Christ. That was fantastic,” Mr. Master said. He was laughing, too, but gasping for air.

“Is that supposed to happen?” I said.

“It does if the man is lucky,” Mrs. Cohen said. “Oh, shit, you got it on my skirt. You should watch where you point that thing.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s not your fault, sweetie,” she said. “I should have been naked like you are.”

She wiped some of the goo off her boob and licked her fingers.

“Mmm. Spermy,” she said.

I let go of Mr. Master’s dick. All the wet — the sperm and the spit — made a web between my fingers. I tried licking it off like Mrs. Cohen did, but as soon as it touched my tongue I spat it out.

“Eww! Gross!”

So I wiped it on my butt.

“Warren, get off your ass and get this poor girl some towels,” Mrs. Cohen said. “She’s got your spunk all over her.”

“Mine? What about yours?”

He was right. Mrs. Cohen left dark lipstick prints around my nipples. I tried to wipe the color off one of them, but the wet gunk on my hand just smeared it.

“All the more reason to get her cleaned up,” she said.

“Can’t I enjoy this a second?” he said.

“No,” she insisted. “You had your fun.”

His body seemed to unfold as he stood up. God, he’s so tall. I was squatting on my heels on the floor, and I saw the bottom of his balls hanging down. His dick looked down at me like a one-eyed monster. He pulled up his pants, and a few drops of his stuff flew off and hit me on the cheek just as it flipped back into his boxers.

While he was gone, Mrs. Cohen explained about blowjobs and jacking and come and everything. She made me promise not to tell anyone, but she didn’t have to. I knew we couldn’t do it again if I blabbed to anybody, and I wanted to see her boobs again. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

“Are all guys that big?” I asked her.

“Our esteemed principal is kind of a special case,” she said.

“Does he ever, like, you know...”

“Put it in me? Oh sure. It’s fantastic.” She explained about fucking.

“I don’t think I could do that.”

“You just need to find a boy your own age. Don’t let Warren talk you into it. He’ll hurt you.”

“I want a grown up,” I said. “Hey, maybe my —”

“Here we are,” Mr. Master said, barging in the door. He was carrying a stack of fluffy towels from the pool locker room and a clump of wet paper towels from the bathroom. He gave the paper towels to Mrs. Cohen, and the two of them wiped me down from my head to my knees.

“God, you are a mess,” Mr. Master said, wrapping me up in a towel and rubbing me hard. That felt nice. Mr. Cohen washed her lipstick off my face and neck and chest, and Mr. Master dried me off. The paper towels were cold and wet, and she really pushed hard, like she was trying to get blood off a carpet or something.

Finally, she wiped Mr. Master’s dried goo off her big tits, and we got dressed.

“I will keep your underwear,” Mr. Master said. “That’s my finder’s fee.”

“I need my bra back,” I said. “It’s the only one I have. Mom will ask me what happened to it.”

“All right, here. But the panties are mine.”

I was having trouble getting my bra back on until Mrs. Cohen showed me how to put the snaps on in front and then swing it around my body.

“God, I took it off over my feet,” I said.

“This is easier,” she said.

She drove me home in the rain.

“Mr. Master said you don’t want to play tomorrow night,” she said when we turned onto my block.

“No, I really sucked,” I said. “I’m too scared.”

“You feel nice and relaxed now, don’t you?”

“Oh, God yeah,” I said.

We pulled up in front of my house. The place was dark. Mom and Dad weren’t home yet.

“Meet me backstage before the concert,” she said. “If I can’t get you to lose your jitters, you don’t have to go on.”

“Really?”

“I promise.”

She gave me a big kiss on the mouth before I got out of the car, and she put her hand under my raincoat and up my skirt.

And that’s what happened. The next night, I came to school with my mom and dad. They went into the auditorium to sit down, and I went backstage into the music room again. All the kids looked at me sideways. I think they were surprised I even showed up. But then Mrs. Cohen came in — with no lipstick this time. We snuck off to the library, and we didn’t come back until right before I had go on. Mr. Master was there on the stairs with his clipboard again, and he put his hand on my neck as went I went past, just like before. Except now I wasn’t jittery. After half an hour in the library, with Ari’s sweet soft tongue all over my tits and pussy, I didn’t care who was looking at me, or even if I remembered to put my panties and bra back on. Just as I was puckering up, a warm drop trickled down my bare leg.

I never played so well.

The End

Danielle’s story continues in “Don’t Tell Mommy.”

© 2012 by Jacqueline Jillinghoff