Keep You Soft, Keep You Hard

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a lesson turned into a lesson learned

warnings: dom!alex, smut, spanking, fucking, he's a piano tutor in this one

You told yourself to focus, to blink hard and drag yourself back to the lines of notes staring up from the page, to the tidy rows of black and white at your fingertips

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You told yourself to focus, to blink hard and drag yourself back to the lines of notes staring up from the page, to the tidy rows of black and white at your fingertips. But it was impossible, not with him so close.

The bench was small, and he had this way of filling it, of crowding your thoughts with his presence alone. It was maddening, the quiet authority that he seemed to radiate. His knee grazed yours, barely a touch, yet every nerve sparked, hyper-aware of that faint contact. A steady reminder, right there in your periphery, while his hands moved so effortlessly, coaxing sound from the keys as though he were simply pulling music from thin air.

His hands stilled, resting for a moment, fingers slightly curled, frozen in the poised elegance of someone who knew precisely what he was doing. He looked over at you, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark with expectation, heavy and relentless. He wasn't saying anything, but his silence was a challenge. You could feel it in the air around, pressing down on you.

"Got it?" he asked, breaking the spell of quiet, his voice low and thick with a trace of impatience. It curled up in your chest. He wasn't a big man, and yet somehow he seemed to take up so much space, shrinking you, folding you up in the force of his presence.

"I'll try." you whispered, and it felt like you were conceding some silent game of power that perhaps you hadn't realised you'd been playing until this moment.

You lifted your hands from your lap, letting them hover over the keys as though you might find the confidence somewhere in the space between you and the piano, in the faint vibration left over from the notes he'd just played. Your hands were almost shaking — or were you imagining that? You tried not to breathe too audibly, tried to ignore the way his gaze felt like it was searing into you, trying to drag your attention back to the music. The melody, simple as it was, mocked you from the page, its simplicity an indictment of your scattered thoughts.

You pressed down, trying to mimic the way his fingers had danced, almost weightless and more than sure. The first note sounded harsh, loud, the clumsy sound of hesitation. You grimaced, starting again, forcing yourself to exhale, to soften, trying to hear the music he had made so effortlessly just minutes before.

He leaned in, just slightly, his shoulder brushing yours as he looked down at your hands, as if examining them. You could feel the warmth of his body, a slow, steady heat radiating through the coldness of his gaze, through the unyielding expectation. That closeness did something to you, ignited something bright and sharp. It made you forget, just for a moment, about the thin sheet of music paper in front of you and instead focus on the way his breath seemed to mingle with yours in the shared silence.

"Not quite like that." he murmured, and it was almost unbearable, the quiet ease of his tone. One of his hands hovered near yours, fingers reaching, a faint suggestion. You could feel his pulse in his fingers as they ghosted over your hand, showing you where you should go. "Here, like this..."

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