Jennifer watched the sandy–haired eleven–year–old’s long, delicate fingers stab at the piano keys as he murdered Fur Elise. Every touch carried his anger and frustration. She understood instantly what he was doing, and she smiled as she recalled once being where he was now in both body and mind.
Her mother had been told, as a child, she had great potential as a pianist but a lack of money, and an absent father, made pursuing that career impossible. However, it made Jennifer’s mother determined beyond reason that Jennifer should become a pianist. The girl was touched by the often heard tale of her mother’s spoiled dream and did not want to disappoint her. Although she did not like playing the piano; in fact, hated almost everything about it, Jennifer could not actively oppose her mother. Whenever she had done so, her mother became disconsolate. Jennifer decided her only recourse was to display a complete lack of talent at the piano until her mother agreed there was no reason to continue the endeavor.
Jennifer had nearly succeeded when she was twelve and her long time teacher, Mrs. Bolton, informed her mother she was dropping Jennifer as a student to make room for more promising young talent. To Jennifer’s delight her mother seemed to finally accept the considered opinion of the well respected teacher and, indeed, anyone who had ever heard Jennifer play, that it was time for the girl to pursue other interests better suited to her talents.
Although her mother was nearly silent with disappointment for days, Jennifer was busily pursuing any other activity she could find. It was as though she had been abstaining from activities like they were alcohol and had gone off on a bender. She joined a soccer team, the debate squad, student government, even started reading to young children at the library. Released from the restraints of practicing piano, for hours a day, she relished her new freedom.
It lasted about a month until her mother returned home one day with a smile on her face and an announcement. She had decided that the problem with Jennifer’s piano playing all along, had been her teacher. Mrs. Bolton was simply unable to properly motivate difficult students with talent. Consequently, she had called upon an old friend and now had someone who could put Jennifer on the right path.
Stung with frustration at having her freedom yanked away from her, and the dread of enduring her mother forcing her to practice every day, Jennifer considered her options. Open defiance was simply too upsetting for her mother. It was one thing to have no aptitude for fulfilling her mothers dream, but to refuse to take on the effort, because she wanted to do practically anything else, seemed callous and cruel. Jennifer had worn down Mrs. Bolton and was confident she could do the same with another teacher.
Especially after her mother sat her down and told her about the man. He was old, having played for several orchestras before retiring as conductor, and very demanding. He only took on especially promising students for instruction. Several young prodigies he had taught were now studying in prestigious schools. Heretofore, he had instructed only boys, as he believed girls could not concentrate sufficiently to become accomplished on the instrument.
“Why is he taking me on, then?” Jennifer asked.
“As a special favor to me,” her mother replied.
Jennifer thought it should be easy to convince one so biased against girls that teaching her was a waste of time, so she agreed. She would seemingly try, once more, to live out her mother’s dream, and be greatly relieved when she failed, again, and her mother finally capitulated.
At their first lesson, Mr. White asked her to play a variety of pieces to assess her abilities. Stiffly perched next to her on the bench, dressed in a dark suit, his expression dour, he wielded a conductor’s baton. It was a white fiberglass shaft about 14 inches long with a handle made of an exotic wood. He used it for everything; pointing to notes on sheet music, to the keys, the peddles, her fingers and even the curve of her back, while commenting on her poor posture. She quickly grew to hate the baton and, particularly, how he used it to touch her. Mr. White’s hands were wrinkled and gross, but she was quite sure she would prefer their touch to that of the baton.
Jennifer played especially poorly for his benefit hoping his dismay would bloom quickly and he would finally convince her mother to release her from her impossible dream. Mr. White said little, communicating what he wished her to play with the baton and, after thirty minutes, he cleared his throat and tapped her knuckles indicating she should stop.
“Very well, Miss Liu, I’ve heard quite enough. You treated some of the finest music ever conceived very badly, and you should be ashamed.”
Jennifer was inwardly delighted and outwardly contrite. “I’m sorry, Mr. White. I try, but I guess I’m just not very good. My mom is going to be so disappointed.”
The man stared at the young girl, his cool blue eyes capturing hers somehow. It was the first time he had looked at anything other than her hands since she sat down. It made her apprehensive about what he was going to say.
“Miss Liu, I am afraid you are afflicted with a great burden. One I should never wish upon someone of such a tender age.”
“I am?”
“Yes. It appears your mother is correct. You have an abundance of talent on the instrument and a paucity of respect for it. That combination is one which has destroyed a great many musicians. They have grown sullen, turned to drink or, worst of all, settled for something considerably less than what they could have been. I am not going to let the happen to you, Miss Liu.”
Jennifer was flabbergasted.
“You’re not?”
“Most assuredly,” he said curtly. “You shall appear here for instruction every Tuesday at precisely three o’clock. You will dress appropriately. None of this casual attire young people throw on these days that makes them look like refugees or prostitutes.” As though she might not understand his meaning he said, “To wit,” and pointed to her spaghetti strap top with the baton. “No shorts, or denim, or anything that makes you look like you are about to compete in a sporting event. You will wear a dress, proper for a young lady, at a suitable length near your knees over a slip and with plain white cotton panties. You will not wear hosiery and you will wear shoes with leather soles.
“You will place that long hair, that you allow to dangle about your arms while you play, into a single neat braid. You will wear no makeup. It is inappropriate for a young lady of your age. You will trim and manicure your nails exactly one–eighth inch in length and apply a clear matt polish. I abhor glossy painted nails on a pianist.”
Jennifer was aghast, bordering on furious. “What?”
“You are considerably more than you would have people believe, Miss Liu, so I am positive you understood my every word. From this point forward you will do exactly as I command or there will be, as they say, hell to pay.”
“You’re . . . you’re crazy!”
“Merely disciplined, Miss Liu,” he said, still holding the girl with his eyes shrouded by bushy gray eyebrows. “Although, I can understand how someone who is used to applying the minimum effort required to get by might think so.” He handed the girl three pieces of sheet music and said, “I expect you to play these at our next lesson.”
Jennifer looked at the difficult music by Rachmaninoff and said, “I’ve never seen these before. I can’t play these. You saw how badly I play.”
“Miss Liu, you did play badly, but deliberately so because you think I am an old fool. I assure you, I am not. Only someone with an intuitive feel for the music could have played them badly in the manner in which you did. You played wrong notes with such aplomb, and botched the tempo so charmingly, that you revealed your true nature to me. The ruse of your lack of talent has been exposed, and should be discarded.”
The man stood, turned and faced her with his baton at his side.
“You may go now, Miss Liu.”
Jennifer could barely comprehend what had transpired as she slumped out of Mr. White’s music room, into the entry way, and out the front door to her mother, who was waiting in the car at the front of his house. It took Jennifer a considerable effort to collect her thoughts as she got in and fastened the seatbelt. She waited for her mother to ask the question she had asked after every lesson since she was six years old. When she didn’t, Jennifer queried, “Aren’t you going to ask how it was?”
Her mother started the car and said, “No. It doesn’t matter how you feel it went. Mr. White is your new instructor so; you had better learn to deal with him.”
Jennifer was livid and spent the next several days contemplating how she would defeat her mother’s new strategy, and the Nazi she had enlisted to implement it. He simply could not make her a good pianist if she didn’t want to become one. Surely, that was obvious even to him, wasn’t it?
Having decided on a strategy of her own, Jennifer arrived at the second lesson ready to implement it. He opened the door and stood aside while Jennifer entered the music room. It was spacious, even with the grand piano in the middle, and exquisitely decorated with paintings and sculpture. Jennifer went directly to the piano and was halted before she could sit down.
“Come here, Miss Liu.”
Jennifer slowly walked towards him until she was standing in front of the man, still holding the sheet music he had given her to practice.
“Show me your fingernails,” he said.
Looking at him warily, she tucked the music under her arm and spread her fingers before him.
He examined them and then swiftly brought the baton down on the back of her hands.
“Ow!’ she yelled in pain, dropping the sheet music before she commenced rubbing her hands together. “That hurt.” Tears began to well up in her eyes.
“Not nearly as much as they will the next time you arrive not having prepared yourself for a lesson, Miss Liu.” He placed the pointed tip of the baton under her chin lifting it up. “Now stop your sniveling and stand up straight.”
Jennifer sniffed and amended her posture. He dragged the point of the baton up her spine until she straightened even more.
“Clasp your fingers in front of your vulva, Miss Liu. It is a position of demure respect you will adopt whenever you stand before me. Is that understood?”
Too shocked by the pain, and his use of the word ‘vulva’ to argue, Jennifer did as instructed. Mr. White walked around her and examined the braid in her hair. She had done it hastily, just before getting in the car, and so she held her breath for fear of his disapproval.
“That will do,” he said as he lifted it with the baton, then let it drop to her back. Having circled, he again faced her.
“Remove your panties, and give them to me.”
Jennifer stared in disbelief. She was too taken aback to move or speak.
“Miss Liu,” the man said, “what do you imagine the punishment will be for disobeying me?”
Jennifer started to speak, but found she could only shudder at what he might do. With her lips trembling; she bent down, reached under her dress, carefully stepped out of her panties, and held them toward him in one hand. He snagged them with the baton, held them up to see them clearly, then deftly stuffed them into the breast pocket of his suit coat, tucking them in with the baton until just a portion showed, as though a decorative handkerchief. It was as if he had taken a trophy and put it on display.
He then directed her to pick up the sheet music and sit on the bench at the piano. Jennifer sat slowly, and gingerly, aware of an uncomfortable coolness in her nether region and disturbed by the sensation of her bare genitals on the hard, wood surface. As directed, she opened one of the sheets and paused. Using the baton, he corrected her distance from the piano, her placement on the bench, and the position of her hands above the keyboard in preparation to play. Then he sat next to her, but not touching her, and told her to begin.
The man had figured out that Jennifer was playing poorly in the hope of being dismissed as talentless; so, she had conceived a new strategy. She did not even open the music he had given her so that when she played it for him her mistakes would be natural and convincing. She played all three pieces haltingly, reading the music for the first time as she played. When she finished she rested her hands in her lap and waited for his recognition of her lack of talent.
Instead, he stood up and walked to the back of the grand piano. He tapped on the shiny black surface of the closed lid gently and said, “Come here, Miss Liu.” Nervously, she stood and went to him. He positioned her with the baton at a precise, short distance from the piano, and instructed her to bend over placing her torso on the top. She became aware once more of her nakedness under her dress as he told her to spread her arms and grasp the edges of the piano.
As she rested her face on the surface he said, “You must cultivate a respect for the instrument, Miss Liu. You must give it the attention it deserves. You must learn to listen to what it has to say and to how it makes you feel. If it does not thrill you, if it does not bring you the greatest possible pleasure, if it does not sate you, it is not the fault of the instrument. It is your own.”
Jennifer thought his ramblings that of a madman until she felt her dress being lifted by the baton and draped on her back.
“What are you going—”
The sharp strike of the baton across her buttocks made a loud slapping sound. Jennifer let out a scream in surprise. Another strike made her clutch the edge of the piano more tightly. Each subsequent strike stole her breath, and the pain accumulated, as did the burning heat on her bottom. He did not count, and she was not of a counting frame of mind; so, she could not be sure how many times he drew welts on her never–before–touched–by–a–man backside. The last strike was the penultimate as it whipped across the lowest portion where her buttocks joined the back of her thighs and caught her fluffy protruding vulva. It was the most intense pain she had ever felt and her eyes fluttered shut as she nearly lost consciousness prostrate on the piano.
She heaved and sobbed softly and was relieved and grateful when she felt her dress slide down to cover the fire that was her butt. Mr. White came to stand near her head, waited a minute for her cries to dampen, and then said, “I understand this has been quite painful for you, Miss Liu. As I am not a cruel man it distresses me greatly to see your tears. However, it is the only way you can acquire the discipline necessary to achieve your potential as a pianist. This will not be the last time you will feel such pain; however, there will also be great pleasure for you, in time, as you earn it. You may standup now.”
The girl eased herself off the piano and stood trembling. He encouraged her with the baton to straighten her back and she quickly brought her hands together and entwined them as before. Using the baton, he retrieved her panties from his breast pocket, held them toward her, and said, “Dry your tears Miss Liu.”
Jennifer took the panties, dabbed at her eyes with them, sniffed, and wiped her nose. He directed her to put them on, which she did, and then she smoothed down her slip and her dress and stood before him, straight and demur. Her head was down, but he brought it up with the baton under her chin.
“You need never look down when standing before me, Miss Liu. And I will never look down upon you.”
A brief scan from him followed. Jennifer wasn’t sure if the resulting expression meant he felt he had inflicted too much pain, or not enough. He handed her the same three sheets of music and bid her good day.
Jennifer sat gingerly in the car and fastened her seat belt as her mother got underway. The woman was silent until Jennifer took a breath and said, “He hurt me.”
She anticipated her mother would want details and she was going to give her every single one. There would be police, and lawsuits, and Jennifer would laugh and cheer when the old man was sent to jail for abusing a twelve–year–old girl. Best of all, there would be no more piano lessons.
“Then you had better do what you are told,” her mother said.
Surprised, Jennifer reiterated, “No, he really hurt me.”
“He will be your instructor from now on. Whatever goes on in those lessons is between you and him. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
It was a long ride home and Jennifer felt, by turns, humiliated, molested, betrayed, infuriated, abandoned and desolate. That evening she cried again as she examined her bottom for damage. She found the best way to see was to lie on her back on the bed, pull her knees up and view it with a large hand mirror. There were thin red welts from the baton and they still hurt badly. She decided to ease the pain by rubbing in some cooling cream. This was moderately successful and, as she continued rubbing, she recalled clutching the piano while Mr. White struck her again and again with that wicked baton. It was such a vivid image she did not think she could ever forget it, nor the pain; such intense pain, across her most tender parts.
She looked carefully to see if her vulva had been damaged. There was the single welt spanning both buttocks and lips of her vulva, and she used more cream to sooth the redness. Her fingers extended beyond the welt into the area above and just inside. This felt much better and she told herself she deserved to feel good for what she had been through. Using even more cream she concentrated on her clitoris and the relief she needed. She usually thought of boys at school she liked and she remembered a blond from her English class who had slipped her a note. As she flicked she found herself thinking again of being spread over the piano and the old man whipping her with his baton. What did he mean about there being great pleasure to come, as well as more pain? She had never found great pleasure in playing the piano. It was, perhaps, coincidental that her orgasm came at that particular instant; but, the fact that it did, made Jennifer think it was meaningful. It made her wonder if she deserved his punishment. It made her wonder if she was one of those crazy sick people she had heard about who like to be hurt when they are having sex.
Jennifer was immaculately dressed, hair braided and nails manicured for her third lesson. She had worried, excessively, about her preparation; wishing to avoid another harsh punishment. As she stood before him, hands folded in front, looking straight into his lucid eyes, she searched for a sign of approval; a slight grin, a near wink, a praising gesture, anything. Instead, he examined her appearance, apparently found it acceptable, and then walked to the piano indicating she should follow.
“Please remove your clothes, Miss Liu,” he said plainly.
Jennifer swallowed hard. She knew what was coming. It had been a reoccurring fear for days. The old man was going to rape her, probably with her hunched over the piano. After the brutal attack she would cry, go directly to the police and have them tell her mother what happened. Then her mother would know that it was her fault. Instead of inspiring her to become a pianist, her mother’s dream would be the cause of her only child’s defilement. Who could blame Jennifer for never wanting to play the piano again? Her mother would have a hold on her no more.
Jennifer reached behind and grasped the zipper of the dress and pulled it down. The buzz of the separating material seemed exceedingly loud and portentous in the quiet of the large room. Still looking at his calm, weathered face, she shrugged enough to let the sheer, flower print dress fall to the floor around her feet.
“Fold your clothes and place them on the piano,” he said, pointing with the baton.
She removed her dress, pulled the slip off over her head, released her bra, and stepped out of her panties. She stacked each item on the piano, just above the gold leaf lettering on the side reading: Bösendorfer. Jennifer took a deep breath, straightened, folded her hands in front, and looked at the man. She had never been observed by another man in such a state, but she was not ashamed. Perhaps it was Mr. White’s impassive expression that made embarrassment unwarranted. Or her willingness to endure his taking of her so as to put an end to piano lessons forever.
Her breasts were quite modest and just starting to fill her first bra; but, for the first time that made her feel conspicuous. Perhaps, because her nipples had become erect at some point; something that had always been a source of embarrassment before, but not now. The hairs of her vulva tickled her fingers as she posed for him. She looked into his eyes for some hint of what he was feeling, but could discern nothing.
Not quite as anticipated, he asked her to climb onto the lid of the piano. Mr. White directed her to lie on her stomach, with her head near the keyboard, and her feet spread apart. She found herself disappointed that she was not going to see him rape her. If she was going to be raped, she would like to see his approach, and see him grin like a madman in a movie rape scene. She wanted to be able to describe his sinister leer to the police, how he grabbed at her tender breasts like an animal, and the way he hovered above her with his ugly, turgid thing, and then used it to brutalize her virgin sex.
After he tapped her legs wide, her arms wider, and her face to one side facing forward, he came to sit at the piano. Placing the baton on the fall board he began to play. Jennifer was startled by the sound emanating from the instrument. With her ear pressed to the surface of the lid it was much louder than she could have imagined. The piece was unfamiliar to her but she listened intently. The treble strings were bright and vibrant as they wafted through the wood under her ear. And the base strings! They vibrated her entire body from her breasts to her toes. She had not felt anything on a piano but the slick ivory keys in a very long time, and she marveled at the sensation engendered as the felt hammers struck a cascade of mellifluous chords. Some chords seemed to focus on her vulva, as though they were tuned to her particular anatomical characteristics. Others vibrated her breasts and fingers and made her yearn to touch one to the other.
Mr. White played without sheet music; his ancient, spotted hands were as light as windblown leaves, falling delicately on the keys. His movement was formal, yet otherworldly, as though he was inhabited by a younger, softer man infused with a passion for the music that could barely be contained by his frail body.
As he played, the music enveloped Jennifer, permeated her, tuned her to its subtleties, and taught her its complexities. The music made her wet. She felt as though she might drip from between her legs on the surface of the beautiful piano. How would she explain her lubricious puddle?
At the conclusion of the piece he stood, and tapped the baton on her back. She opened her eyes, sat up, dangled her feet over the edge of the piano, and looked at him. She had a feeling of wanting, of incompleteness, of one taken from a long desert trek and placed in front of a cool fountain. Will he not take her, not ravish her on the piano, as she had imagined?
At his direction she slid from the piano to the hardwood floor, put on her bra, slip, and dress. As she reached for her panties she noticed the smear of her juices on the surface of the piano lid where she had sat. Embarrassed, she wiped it carefully with her panties, and slipped them on under her dress. Looking again, she lifted her dress and used it to buff the spot and returned the lid to its former shine.
He smiled at her in a kindly way; the first indication of warmth she had seen on the man. She interpreted the upward curl of his lips as appreciation of her respect for the piano. It warmed her all over to know she had pleased him. At that instant, she thought there might be no limit to what she might do to please the aged musician.
She imagined arriving unprepared for a lesson, having him whip the baton across her naked buttocks to show his displeasure. He would then dampen her tears with the gentle caress of the baton across her back and neck, tickling her nipples with the long shaft, and using the sharp tip to stroke the insides of her thighs. Then he would turn the shaft around and use the exquisite wooden handle to massage her to a crescendo of pleasure.
Or, perhaps, he would direct her, with the baton, to her knees in front of him while he sat at the piano; and while he would play she would suck his cock as his music surrounded her and her mouth filled with his seed. If she pleased him, perhaps then he would return her to the piano and ravage her mercilessly into womanhood.
Just then, bringing her abruptly out of her daydream, Mr. White handed her the music for her next lesson and said, “Good day, Miss Liu.”
Crestfallen, Jennifer could only turn with difficulty to leave. How could he create such yearning in her and not gratify her? Did she not do everything precisely as he wished? Did she not bear her every aspect to him? Was she not pretty enough for him? Were her hips too big? Her breasts too small? Why was she not to his liking?
As she got into the car her mother took notice of her faraway look, but said nothing. About halfway home Jennifer said, unprovoked, “He plays beautifully.”
“Yes, he does,” her mother agreed.
Some transformation of her young self had occurred, Jennifer thought, while she had laid prostrate on the piano before the man and was bathed in his music. It was as if it was the first time she had ever heard the instrument and it cast a spell. He had cast a spell. She listened in a way never imagined and heard far more than mere notes and melodies. The strange man had triggered desires in her never before glimpsed. Jennifer had submitted herself to him and his music; surrendered completely. She would have done whatever base, disgusting, thing he asked of her, but he sent her away. There could only be one reason: Jennifer did not play well enough to be worthy of him. She would change that. She would learn to play so well he would feel the same crushing desire for her that she felt for him.
As she watched the young boy pound uncaringly at the keys, Jennifer felt the ache of desire from long ago. What she would give to lie naked on the piano as Mr. White commanded the strings to vibrate her very being once more; to feel the exquisite pain of his discipline, and the unbearable joy of his pleasure when she played well. The power of the recollection made her feel young again, and sad, and wet.
∞
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