Rachel's Music Lesson Part 1 of 2 - Sex Stories

Rachel's Music Lesson Part 1 of 2

I ran from my car on the gravelly crunch up to the front porch, took off my coat and shook it free of the rain. It was Mrs. Barton who finally opened the door. ‘You’re here, good. Come in, come in.’ She fretted. ‘Oh, where is that silly girl. Up in her bedroom. I suppose. Teenagers eh, what could she be doing there?’ It was a rhetorical question that she threw away, much like most of the words she ever used. ‘Oh, gosh, gosh. The taxi will be here soon and I still need to put my face on property.’ To me she looked as she always did. overly made up.

‘It seems that summer might be over.’ I suggested as I shut the front door.

‘Hmm, yes. What was that?’ Her focus was now in the mirror.

She had been a pretty widow. With boundless energy and unlimited tastes, all directed, as I finally discovered, towards her own self-satisfaction. Very few things constrained her, but one was her daughter Rachel, for whom I had been contracted to teach the piano since she was a little girl. It had been a difficult assignment. Not only had I violently and disastrously succumbed to the mother’s advances in the beginning, when I was young and fresh from music school, but my young charge hadn’t a musical cell in her body and lessons were often bad-tempered affairs that descended into dramatics.

‘You are not going out Samantha?’ I always insisted on a parent in the house when I gave lessons. But, Mrs. Barton knew she was no ordinary parent.

I was the music teacher to the granddaughter of ...

... Sir Roderick and Lady Billingham and a flood of middle-class mothers in the local area saw it as a social advancement to also employ my services. Not everything was rosy in this arrangement. It was glaringly obvious that any change in this circumstance would lead to the evaporation of that lucrative custom; a button that Samantha Barton pressed regularly. Not all shackles are made of iron.

‘Lunch with the girls, oh I know I usually stay in when you’re here, like a good mother should, but Madam has been behaving herself so much better since her holidays. She might even be growing up at last. Oh God! that’s not the taxi is it. Oh, here will do.’ She stood in front of the large hall mirror and proceeded to apply invisible layers of lipstick. ‘How’s that little wife of yours?’ she asked.

It was a typical question from her. Both derogatory and referential. She obviously did not want to know about my wife, she asked me more as a reminder of the influence she once had, before cigarettes and wine had taken over.

‘We’re both very happy.’ I replied. I was sure deep down this was the truth. Mary was kinder, more thoughtful and prettier than my only other comparison - Samantha Barton. But I was still a fool for that buxom little coquette, and still entranced by the bounty that the lively widow promised. Of course I was happy. Why should I not be happy.

‘I’m sure you both are.’ She smirked, immediately addressing the resultant creased area on her face.

‘We go away ourselves ...