
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/102992.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Jesse_St._James/Shelby_Corcoran
  Character:
      Shelby_Corcoran, Jesse_St._James
  Additional Tags:
      Teacher/Student, mild_D/s_undercurrents, Music, Cunnilingus, Oral_Sex,
      Hand_Job, Masturbation, Porn_Battle
  Collections:
      Porn_Battle_X_(Ten_Big_Ones)
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-07-24 Words: 1683
****** Guide ******
by athenejen
Summary
     In which Jesse gets distracted.
Notes
     Addresses the prompts "boy," "experience," and "sound."
"She tied you to her kitchen chair, she broke your throne and she cut your
hair, and from your lips she drew the hallelujah," Jesse sings. He's standing
stage center, heels on the masking-tape X. The lights half-blind him as he
projects his voice as far as he can into auditorium, but he fell in love with
performing at age five, so he hardly notices. Even a flashlight shining
directly into his eyes doesn't make him blink, these days.
Ms. C is in her usual chair, surrounded by notes as she fiddles with a pencil.
He can't see her eyes through the lights, but he can tell she's watching him
critically. It's late. They'd worked through dinner and she sent the rest of
Vocal Adrenaline home an hour ago.
He's just begun the fourth verse when she cuts him off. "No! No, no, no. This
song only works if it's personal. It has to come from the most emotional place
inside of you. The audience has to believe you're whispering it to them in the
night. Again!"
Jesse goes back to the second verse. He closes his eyes and tries to really
feel the words, rolling each of them against the roof of his mouth as he sings.
He doesn't even get to the repeated hallelujahs before she interrupts him.
"Stop! Now you're too internal. Feel the emotion, whisper it to yourself, yes,
but you still have to connect it to the audience!"
When Jesse opens his eyes, she's walking toward the stage along the left aisle.
The subtle side slit in her knee-length skirt flashes tiny hints of skin at him
as she walks. Her papers are no longer on the table, likely they're in the
briefcase she's setting down on the seat at the end of the row. She moves to
front row center and sits down, then leans forward with her elbows on her
knees, hands clasped in front of her.
He has a perfect view of her cleavage. Not that Ms. C shows a lot of it -- she
dresses like a teacher, mostly -- but the angle lets him see every millimeter
clearly, disappearing into the vee of her blouse. He forces his eyes back up to
her face.
She looks amused. He refuses to blush as he meets her eyes. Instead, he starts
the song again, from the top.
She leans back in the chair, still radiating amusement. He gets all the way to
the end of the fourth verse this time. When she stops him, he realizes that his
eyes have traveled most of the way down her body, nearly to the floor. He's
been watching her cross and uncross her legs.
He has no idea how the song was going.
"Jesse," she says. She sounds almost kind, which immediately makes him
suspicious. "You got distracted. It's almost like..." Her eyes are intent on
his face. "It's almost like you're curious." She smiles, catlike.
"Come here," she orders, beckoning him towards her, "off the stage." When he's
standing in front of her, she looks up at him thoughtfully. "Perhaps this will
help you focus," she continues. "Kneel." She gestures to the ground.
He drops to the floor without any conscious involvement from his brain.
"Give me your hands," she says. He does. She places his left hand on her right
breast, palming the side of the curve. She tucks the other just barely under
the hem of her skirt, his thumb pressed into the warm skin of her thigh.
Her gaze holds his, serious and calm. "You can touch as much as you want."
He sucks in a harsh breath of air. He keeps his eyes locked on hers, and
slowly, slowly moves his left hand to cup her breast, to squeeze it gingerly,
to skim his palm underneath until he can feel her nipple starting to peak
beneath his fingers. He can't resist glancing down, then, and he knows his face
shows his awe. Her shirt is thin enough that he can see it clearly, and he
suddenly realizes that maybe she's been wanting this as much as he has. He
rolls the nipple between his fingers, then does the same to the one on the
other side.
"Good," she murmurs, "that's good." He feels her thigh shift as her legs fall
open, and remembers his other hand. Tentatively, he slides his hand up her
thigh, until the tips of his fingers brush something wiry. His eyes snap back
up to her face. She's not wearing underwear, and she smiles at him as he
figures it out.
Fuck. His left hand pinches her nipple reflexively, and she shudders. Then,
with both hands, he draws the skirt up to her hips, staring down at the
triangle of neatly-trimmed pubic hair. His fingers are trembling, but he
tangles them in the skirt at her hips and holds on tight. She spreads her legs
a few inches wider.
"I can teach you, if you want, guide you through this. But only if you want it.
Or we can just forget this ever happened. Your choice."
He shakes his head slightly, still staring fixedly down at her. He licks his
lips, then says, voice rough and low, "I want it."
"Good," she replies. She shifts to the edge of the seat and spreads her legs
wide. His hands are on her inner thighs now. His fingers are still trembling,
but he digs them into her skin to hold her open and she makes an approving
sound. Then she places a gentle hand on the nape of his neck and guides him
carefully down until his mouth is hovering just above her skin.
"Now I'm going to help you find my clitoris," she says. Her tone is cool,
almost clinical. "This is the most important step for making any woman feel
good."
He nods. He's breathing onto her damp skin; he can smell her and it's heady and
overwhelming and he wants to taste it.
"Pick a spot close to the center," she instructs. "Now, softly -- lick. Mmm,
that's good, keep your tongue nice and soft and light. Move a little to the
left. My left. Yes. Now down just a touch. Yes. Feel that little nub under your
tongue? Flatten your tongue out over it -- yes. Very good."
He darts his tongue in, attempting to lick her again, and she gasps. "No,
flatter. Softer. Yes, good. Undulate your tongue, gently."
He gets into a steady rhythm. She tastes like musk and heaven, and he can feel
her getting warmer under his tongue, the nub beneath his tongue more and more
there.
She gasps again above him, but it sounds encouraging this time. "Yes," she
says. "Just like that."
So he does it just like that, until she's shaking and he has to tighten his
grip on her thighs to keep her in place, until she's whimpering quietly above
him and the taste of her changes as his tongue slips more easily against her.
Until she throws her head back and cries out, "Yes, yes, yes, yes yes yes yes
yes yes yes," and jerks against his mouth, and he feels her fingers in his hair
tugging him backwards and off.
His mouth and tongue feel swollen and strange, but when she leans forward to
kiss him, tongue sweeping into his mouth, he kisses her back eagerly.
Then her hand presses down on the zipper of his jeans, and he moans into her
mouth. She flips open the button and draws the zipper down with one hand, the
other buried in his hair as they kiss.
Her fingers dip under the waistband of his boxers, and when she takes him in
her hand, he moans again, so loud he can hear it bounce off the back wall of
the auditorium. It feels like he's been hard for days.
He pants shallowly, breaths ragged in his own ears, as she strokes him -- once,
twice, five times and he's coming so hard his brain can barely process it, his
body instinctively curling forward and in until his head is resting on her
chest as he breaks completely apart.
It takes him a minute or two to be able to breathe again. She cards her fingers
through his hair, then pushes him back so she can look at his face. She smiles,
satisfied, and keeps pushing until he's sitting back on his heels, face tipped
up to watch her.
She pulls her hand out of his boxers and holds it up to his mouth, says,
"Lick." He obeys, lapping his own come off of her hand in little, flicking
motions of his tongue. He lets his eyes drift closed. It tastes kind of bitter,
but he can feel his cock twitching, and by the time he's licked her hand clean,
he's half hard again.
She's still smiling down at him when he opens his eyes. She leans forward,
kisses him on the cheek. He can smell her perfume, earthy and musky and
sophisticated.
She whispers in his ear, "Good boy."
Then she lets go of his hair to stand up and walk to the end of the row to snag
her briefcase, before heading for the nearest door.
Over her shoulder, she calls back, "See you tomorrow. We'll work on your
Marius."
And then she's gone, and he's left kneeling in front of an empty chair,
breathing hard and a bit dizzy.
He tips sideways and slumps bonelessly on the ground for about ten minutes,
willing his hard-on to go away so that he can walk out of here without all of
his blood pooling in his dick. He knows from experience that his body routing
blood away from his brain makes him clumsy.
Willpower isn't always enough, though, especially not when he can still smell
her on his face and taste her on his lips. He fumbles a hand into his boxers
and strokes himself fast to the memory of the sounds she made as she came
against his tongue.
Afterwards, he licks his own hand clean, eyes closed, pretending she's there to
watch.
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