I could feel myself becoming gripped by that sweet and perilous cocktail of emotions that one could call a crush, or perhaps an obsession, as I watched her in my theatre. Though I was not completely invisible in the low light off to the side of the stage, I knew she wouldn’t notice my staring. She never had before.

Amelia’s attention was entirely on the stage, as it at all times was when the dance class practiced. I was sure she had not missed one lunchtime practice session since she had discovered the dancers. As usual, her sandwiches were untouched beside her, forgotten, something she would have to rapidly munch as she darted off to her next class. She at all times left it to the last second, taking in as much as she could.

I had seen her many times over the last couple of years teaching at the college. She was very short, had thick red locks of hair that were at all times a bit messy and windswept looking, with a smattering of freckles across her cute, soft face. She was also better endowed and curvier than most of her classmates. Still, she was so shy and inexpressive as to be unremarkable, and if not for her cuteness I would not have noticed her at all.

My view changed during a lunch break, when I took my usual position to the side of the stage, feasting on my food. Students in my advanced dance class, the one directly after lunch break, were free to practice through their lunch break if they pleased, and most took the opportunity. At the rear of the stage, through the circle of glass in the door between the theatre and the main hallway, I saw a face. That cute, freckly face framed by those messy red locks. But not inexpressive. Absolutely rapt, in fact, watching my students twirl and leap around the stage.

She pushed the door open slowly, unconsciously I think, and walked almost dazed to sit in the middle of the theatre. Her unblinking eyes did not leave the dancers for a moment. I had never before seen such a look of raw joy and inspiration on a face before. Her eyes, previously not something I had noticed, were a very pale green, and so very wide and bright, wet with tears from the emotions she was clearly feeling. From that moment onward, Amelia had not been far from my thoughts.

It was highly inappropriate for a teacher, I knew, to have developed such an attraction to the young girl, though not illegal. This was a high college, and she was only a year or so from graduation, and I happened to be aware that she was eighteen years old. Still, it would not do for others to notice my focus on sweet Amelia, for I could very easily and quickly end up unemployed and unemployable. If I were to proceed with my interest, I would have to have the appearance of doing so entirely as a teacher looking to support the growth of a student’s artistic capabilities.

Fortunately, women did not experience the same level of scrutiny a man would in taking interest in a female student. I made some casual enquiries among the teachers I was friendly with, and through a wickedly unethical look into her college records and documents, I was able to get a thorough understanding of her teacher evaluations, parental situation, and some other private data the college held. Of course, I could have simply made a request for her academic record, but I had found it via snooping anyway.

Amelia was a consistently high achiever. One of those students who is both intelligent and focused. A common trend in comments by my colleagues was her shyness and tendency to be bullied, which explained why she was at all times so inexpressive. Shielding your thoughts and feelings was an effective strategy to tackle bullying. The smaller the reaction, the less entertaining the victim.

It didn’t take long for a plan to form. I realised that through the college’s computer system, I could make some subtle modifications that would require Amelia to take an elective arts class in her final year, coming up after the summer break. I had no control, unfortunately, over which class she would opt for. That is, no control in the computer system. I would simply have to convince her to take my class.

Watching her one lunchtime, shortly before the conclusion of the college year, I decided to make a move. She didn’t notice me approaching until I took a seat right beside her. She snapped out of her trance with a begin and turned to look up at me. I gave her my kindest smile, and started my first conversation with sweet little Amelia.

For now, it was only my goal to develop a rapport. I was at first concerned she would be unhappy to have her attention dragged away from the dancers, but I found that my commentary on their movements, the history and culture behind the dance, and the techniques involved to achieve such graceful and energetic movements seemed only to enhance her fascination with the subject. Now, she would wave to me upon entry, and I would sit with her, chat, and swap items from my lunch box with hers, reminding her to eat, while we watched the dancers.

After some time of trying to discover a subtle approach, I simply decided to come out with it.

“Amelia, do you like to dance?” I asked bluntly.

“M-me? Well, miss, I don’t really… not in front of people!” she replied, caught off guard.

“I had a look at your academic record, Amelia. I hope you don’t mind.” The look of surprise, combined with a frown of alert confusion, told me she did mind somewhat. Such a shy girl, nervous about any attention directed toward her.

“I could not help but notice that, starting next year, you have a requirement for an elective class involving some sort of art, and the choice is yours.”

I figured she was unaware of this by this point as she probably, like most students, lacked the intricate understanding of such machinations and simply did what the college informed her she must in order to graduate.

“Oh, I didn’t know that…” She muttered.

“I want you to select my advanced dance class. Your interest and passion for dance is unlike anything I’ve ever seen in a student, and it would be a complete waste to see you do anything else.”

Looking up at me, as her eyes went wide with something just short of panic; she looked so deliciously adorable. The look of fear in the face of my adorably innocent Amelia was utterly intoxicating. I had to squeeze my thighs together just to keep the surge of lust from eliciting an audible response. What an absolute cutie.

I interrupted her as she began to stutter a non-answer.

“I know what you’re feeling. You’re incredibly nervous about the idea of being seen performing by me and by the other students in your grade. You have no dance experience and you couldn’t possibly start off in an advanced class. But you see, you only have one year remaining, and it would be such a shame to waste your passion in the basic class next year. So, I have a proposal for you.”

I outlined to her my offer to provide her with private lessons in my home over the course of the summer. To cover all of the content of the basic class, and to go as far as to give her an benefit at the beginning of the new year. I was taking a chance on the lack of interest of her father, her only guardian, who throughout Amelia’s college record had demonstrated a complete lack of involvement in her schooling. I did not, strictly speaking, have permission from the college to invite a student to my home.

“I know it’s a lot to take in, and it’s something you should give some thought to. I will take you by the hand and guide you through all of it, you won’t have to worry about anything but giving it your best. Please be my student, Amelia.”

I tried not to let too much emotion into my plea. My stomach was full of butterflies and my heart was sensitive, like I was the high college student asking my crush on a date. But, of course, I didn’t want this pretty little thing as a girlfriend. I wanted to possess her, to command her, and to watch her dance only for me.

I was very nervous, waiting for her to arrive the following lunchtime. More nervous still when she didn’t show up at her usual time. I was beginning to despair, when she arrived twenty minutes later and ran down the side stairs to my typical lunchtime spot. She stopped just shy of me, panting, her gorgeous breasts moving with every breath, her hands in fists by her side, eyes puffy and red, looking down to the floor. For a moment she stood there, until she met my gaze, and said with resolve, “please teach me to dance!”

Before the end of the college year, I had already prepared a rough schedule to cover the course material over the summer. I wanted to do either five sessions per week, totalling two hours per class, or three sessions per week at three to four hours per. Turns out I need not have bothered being so regimented, as Amelia told me that her father left her free to do as she pleased.

I was so incredibly excited for our first session, which happened the day after the summer holidays began. It turned out we lived relatively nearby, so we agreed that she would walk to my house. She arrived on time and I let her in and showed her around. I took her to my favourite room, the room most people would make an entertainment room, but I had made a performance room, complete with a small stage. Her look of excitement and nervousness mixed deliciously on her face.

My plan was simple. I would teach her as I would any other private student, with one exception. From time to time, at a sustainable rate that would not cause her to run… I would take liberties. I wanted to teach her to dance, and I wanted her to be excellent at it, but just as importantly I wanted to make her mine. My obedient little girl. And so I began.

At first, there was stretching, and basic and deliberate steps and positions, most of which I did with her. I was so incredibly happy, and relieved, to find that she was, in fact, a natural; her excitement and passion for dancing would not be let down by a lack of talent or work ethic. She would someday be an excellent dancer, better in fact than I could ever be, I suspected. But by then, she would dance only for me.

After two sessions, I provided her with an outfit. My first liberty. It consisted of a sturdy sports bra that happened to push her gorgeous breasts together to display her cleavage, and a pair of very flexible, but tight and form-fitting, short shorts. Her lean and lithe arms, legs and belly would be available for my viewing pleasure, not to mention her stunning breasts, on the premise that being able to see her muscles as she moved would allow me to better figure out her movements. Which, admittedly, was not untrue, though not at all necessary at this beginner level.

She looked incredibly shy, but said nothing, and accepted my offer of going into a side room to change. She came out looking perfect, her smooth, pale, bare legs and tight, flat tummy on full display, her breasts accentuated by the bra, and her wide hips and small waist creating a most alluring figure. I did not know until then that her freckles covered her chest and shoulders. Adorable.

I had her for quite a while in that session and decided to work her very hard. I wanted her to work out all her energy. I had her exercise, and jump, and twirl, and move until she was panting, her body slick with sweat, and then I worked her more. By the end, she was exhausted, and unsteady on her feet, but she looked very happy. I was very happy. I approached her, put my hand on her head, and told her, “good girl”.

She blushed, accentuated all the more by the contrast with her freckles, and looked down. Too fucking cute. I wanted to rip her clothes off and put my hands all over her sultry little body. But of course, I resisted such a premature urge. I took one more liberty, and took her by the hand to the upstairs bathroom and provided her with a towel. She took a shower, and afterwards found her clothes waiting for her just inside the door when she stepped out. On her way out, I told her to be sure to bring her dancing clothes next time as well. She gave a nod, and off she went.

I was having so much fun with her. And we had only just begun. I was not sure how long to wait before I attempted my first explicitly sexual liberty. I would coat it in layers of reasoning and sense, but it was a request that was certainly difficult to justify. But I had plans for that. I did not want to push it too early, so I let a week go by with a combination of light exercise, form, and theory. No matter the direction we went, no matter the intensity of the practice, Amelia trusted my schedule and as such, she was a delight to teach. She no longer had any embarrassment about exercising and performing in my presence.

But it was time to step things up. I once again worked her as hard as I could. Stretches, star jumps, straining poses, twirling, for several hours. Panting, dripping with sweat, muscles like jelly, she was just about ready to drop. In this state, she was so vulnerable. So open. I made my move. I got up and made my way up the three steps onto my performance stage, and approached my student. I put a finger out, under her chin, and lifted her eyes to mine. Her feelings, so often hidden in college with her peers, were painted on her face. Exhaustion, elation, and I could see also, submission. Perfect.

“Amelia, there is something very important I need to talk to you about, and it is the difference between playing at this, and truly committing. I think you could be great, Amelia, a truly great dancer.”

She beamed, and smiled so genuinely and happily that my heart nearly melted. What a perfect little creature she was. I pressed onward, nervous but resolved, with a truly dangerous liberty. I had to be very delicate here.

“Amelia, every great dancer has a source of energy, of passion, that drives them to that greatness. That’s true of all art. You channel something into your art, some need or passion, something beyond simply your appreciation and enjoyment for that art, and it keeps you burning to improve, to succeed. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes miss, I think so,” she said, still quite out of breath.

“It is quite rare for somebody as young as you to have developed that level of life experience, to have something like that to draw upon. Do you have something you can draw from, to fuel your passion and energy?”

“Um… I don’t know, miss, I can’t think of anything…” A frown grew on her face and she contemplated for some seconds. “Does this mean I can’t be a great dancer?” She asked me.

Her soft voice had cracked as she spoke, and I could not help but pity her, especially given the corner I had her unknowingly backing toward.

“Without something powerful, I’m afraid it does mean that. You cannot sustain greatness in art through merely the love of the art itself. You need some other passion and inspiration.” I told her decisively. I did not in fact strictly believe this, though certainly some of the world’s greatest art is borne of the pain and struggles of its creator, but it was not an absolute necessity.

My heart was ready to explode when my poor girl’s eyes began to water. She was gonna cry at the wondered of not living up to my expectations and her new dream of being a great dancer. She was primed for the next delicious liberty.

“I just had an idea,” I stated enthusiastically, as though I had not been planning this from the beginning.

“And although a lot of dancers do this,” I lied, as they don’t, but wouldn’t it be brilliant!

“It is quite controversial and not something anybody really talks about,” I finished, dramatically setting the stage for an obscene invention of mine that does not, in fact, happen. At least, not yet.

Her eyes immediately widened and brightened, and I was growing increasingly pleased with how plainly she let her emotions show on her face with me, as she asked me what my idea was. Now, how to put this delicately and not sound too incredibly lewd?

“Well, Amelia, it’s quite a personal thing. Are you sure you’re open to talking to me about something very personal?”

She hesitated, but remembering it was this, or never reaching her potential as a dancer, paired with her submissive nature and trust in me as an expert, she nodded firmly.

“That’s good, thank you for that. You see, it has to do with your sexual energy.” I said, softly.

She blushed furiously, at all times adorable, and she dropped her eyes from mine, and I moved my hand away from her chin. But she had not tried to move away.

“I know how it sounds, but you’re a young girl. You probably have a lot of it, and you can channel it into your dancing. It will not only improve the energy of your body and its movements, but it will also provide the passion needed to be great. But in order to tell how effective it will be with you, I need to ask you something very personal. May I, Amelia?”

Her blush didn’t falter, and she continued to gaze down as best she could, as she stood mere inches from me, still gleaming with sweat, her wet hair in a cute mess, her breasts heaving with every breath.

“Yes miss,” she said, almost a whisper.

“Good girl,” I said soothingly, and enjoyed greatly the subtle spasm that ran through her body in response, and the smile she couldn’t contain.

“I need to know how often you release your sexual energy. Do you understand what I’m asking?”

“Y-you mean… You mean how much I..” She didn’t quite seem able to finish the sentence. I decided it was fine at this point to simply come out with it, as she already had the wondered in her head, and thus my voicing it wouldn’t shock her. Well, not too much, anyway.

“How often do you touch yourself, Amelia?”

She gasped gently at the question.

“Um… t-two or sometimes three times, miss,” she whispered.

“Interesting, two or three times a week, that is quite a nor-“

“No, I mean two or t-three times… a day, miss,” she corrected me.

What a needy little thing. Two or three times a day? Gosh. The poor girl is absolutely gagging for it, how utterly adorable. I had suspected arousal when I told her, “good girl”, but this more or less confirms it, given that she has spent most of the day at my house and has had no opportunity to wet her fingers.

“Oh, I see, well that’s quite normal for a girl your age,” I lied.

Well, as far as I knew. It certainly seemed excessive. Not to mention that in order for it to be efficient, she would presumably have to do it before bed, in the morning, and at some point during the day, at least some days. Interesting. I wonder if she does it when she gets home. Surely not in the college bathroom. Surely not in my bathroom? Hidden camera ideas came and as soon were shot down. It didn’t matter in the long run.

“Are you sure it’s important to you to be the best dancer you can be? We could take an easier, simpler route. You will still be more than good enough for the class next year,” I offered, with a deliberately measured trace of disappointment in my voice, something I greatly hoped she was now attuned to. I believed that disappointing me would weigh heavily on her as a motivator, if nothing else.

“No miss, I want to be the best I can be, whatever it takes!” She said with determination, her hands in fists by her side. I had noticed that it was one of her strategies to push through her shyness and embarrassment.

“Then Amelia… You have to stop releasing all that energy.”

Her face was puzzled and she tilted her head slightly. I don’t think she saw where I was going with this even one bit. She was probably imagining all sorts of lewd possibilities, like masturbating before she dances, or some such, but I think this struck her completely by surprise.

“B-but I need… I mean, if I don’t…” she tried very hard to say it.

“You need to touch yourself, or else the need builds up, and it’s hard to cope with. Right?” I encouraged her to go on.

“Yes miss,” she said quietly. “But what if I can’t…”