Author: The Naughty Gaffer brndtag at mcn.net.
Please use “Story Comments” in subject line if you send e-mail.
Title: Piano Lesson  
Keywords: F/f, spank
Summary: Sometimes a student needs to re-focus. And I’ll use any excuse to pull a teen girl’s panties down and spank her.

The chord jarred loudly in Mrs. Taylor’s ear.  “Again, Melissa,” she rapped out.  The arpeggio ran all right – short on feeling, but accurate – to the last chord and jarred again.  “It’s a simple piece,” Mrs. Taylor said sharply.  A light tap of the baton on Melissa’s shoulder to get her to focus.  “Again.  Think about what you’re doing.  Feel the music, just like in practice.  Your hands know the way unless you distract them.  That’s what practice is for.”

The third and fourth times were as poor.  Mrs. Taylor tapped Melissa’s shoulder with the baton again.  “Put your mind on your work, Melissa.  Play it slowly this time and get it right.”  The teenager worked through the arpeggio, chord by chord, and played them all correctly.  The next pass was faster, with greater assurance and authority.  The final pass was perfect: rapid, fluid, melodic.  Melissa smiled up at Mrs. Taylor.  She was surprised to see a frown on the middle-aged widow’s face.

“Melissa, you must have practice very little this week.  That’s the only reason why a talented girl like you could have so much difficulty on such a simple arpeggio.  Is that true?”

Melissa was a little scared.  Mrs. Taylor was a talented musician and teacher.  She had taught Melissa for six years now, since Melissa’s tenth birthday when she got her own piano.  But Mrs. Taylor was also sharp-tongued and demanding and severe.  She dressed like the church pianist and concert performer that she was: black skirts, high blouses with long sleeves, thick glasses.  Mrs. Taylor was altogether an imposing figure.  “Of course I practiced, Mrs. Taylor,” Melissa answered in a small voice.  But she couldn’t meet the pianist’s eyes.

“Look at me, Miss Danner.  Look straight at me.  Did you practice on your usual schedule this week?”

Melissa tried hard to hold a straight face as she looked at Mrs. Taylor.  But it was too much for her.  Her knowledge that she had, in fact, practiced only twice the last week made Mrs. Taylor’s eyes too bright for her to look at.  “Of course I did,” she squeaked, her eyes on her lap.  When she looked up, Mrs. Taylor was obviously fuming.  Steam almost seemed to come from her ears.

“Get up, Miss Danner.”  That tone was icy and “Miss Danner” was not her usual name at Mrs. Taylor’s house.  Melissa got up quietly.  Her teacher set the baton down on the piano with a slight rap.  Mrs. Taylor sat at the piano, glanced at the music, then played the piece by sight with strength and skill.  She looked at the young student, whose eyes were still downcast.  Mrs. Taylor turned around on the bench to face the girl and took her chin in her strong hand to turn her face up.

“That, Miss Danner, is what you can achieve with practice.  You can get so far with talent alone, but the true artist is faithful to her art.  She learns it thoroughly and she gives it the time it needs.”  The steam was still curling from the widow’s ears.  “And that faithfulness includes your teacher.  You must be honest with me, with your instrument, with your music.  Or you are no more than a pretender.”  Melissa nodded, a small tear forming in one corner of her eye.

“I think you know what I mean,” Mrs. Taylor continued.  “But I think you may need a lesson I had some forty years ago.  Perhaps, forty years from now, you will need to pass this lesson to a young pupil of your own.”  The teacher eyed the young girl in front of her, nearly but not fully contrite.  She was ripening quickly into a beauty such as Mrs. Taylor had been herself: tall, willowy, small-busted.  Today the girl was wearing a T-shirt over a bra, a shirt that was really rather too tight.  The lace showed more than it ought to show.  She was also wearing white denim shorts: too short, too white, too tight.  The lines of her panties were visible through the denim.  Her legs were tan from playing hooky from her piano, the thighs round and firm and the calves strong.   Her long blonde hair was hanging over her face, the only really modest touch about the girl just then.  Mrs. Taylor spoke to her again, holder her firmly by the arms.

“Losing your mother was a great loss to you, my dear.  She might have taken you in hand in ways your father can’t.  She was a friend of mine and I think I know what she would have done.  Since she can’t, God rest her soul, I feel I must.”  Melissa looked up, bewildered and a little frightened again.  What could Mrs. Taylor mean?

A moment later she found out.  Mrs. Taylor pulled Melissa between her thighs and unbuttoned her denim shorts.  She tugged the zipper down, exposing the pink panties that clung low across the girl’s belly.   Then Mrs. Taylor pulled the shorts down below Melissa’s hips and suddenly tipped the girl over her own lap!

Melissa was suddenly looking at the floor of the parlor, at the carpet with its intricate flower pattern.  Her sneaker toes brushed the carpet on the other side.  The weight of her body, bent over the teacher’s lap, pressed into her stomach.  It felt oddly pleasant.  A slight tingle came up her thighs and made her wiggle in spite of her odd position.  She could feel the cool air against her back, the sensitive skin exposed just above and below her panties.  She was glad she’d worn them today – once in a while she didn’t, just to feel naughty.  Well, Melissa felt naughty now.  Naughty, caught, and about six years old dangling across Mrs. Taylor’s lap.  It was true, Melissa thought, that her mother had occasionally put her in the same position.  Maybe Mrs. Taylor was right.

Her reverie was brief, interrupted by the first sound and sting of Mrs. Taylor’s hand across her panties.  Melissa yelped and struggled to put her hands across her bottom, but Mrs. Taylor forestalled her with an iron grip.  Her years at the keyboard had given her great strength in the left hand that held Melissa’s wrists together.  A second pop on her panties brought renewed struggling and a sharp cry from Melissa.

“Hold still, young lady, or I’ll add three strokes every time I have to stop.” Melissa swallowed a protest and concentrated on holding still.  Mrs. Taylor smacked her panties twice more and Melissa whimpered.  Almost against her will, she tried again to put her hands over her bottom.  Mrs. Taylor’s grip was as firm as ever, though, and she couldn't do a thing.  The next thing she felt was not a slap, though.  It was the roughened hand that gripped the waist of her panties and pulled them down on each side.  There was a cool rush of air on her bare bottom as Mrs. Taylor’s hand resumed its work.

Ouch!  Her panties had offered some protection at least, both from the sting of Mrs. Taylor’s hand and from the embarrassment of her position.  This smack stung a good deal more.  But Melissa managed to hold still.  She knew that her teacher’s will was of the same iron as her grip and her hand.

Mrs. Taylor slapped each side about five times, allowing them to take on a pinkish hue but not to really be injured.  Then she helped Melissa stand back up and rubbed her bare bottom to reduce the sting.  The teacher gently slid the girl’s panties back in place and fastened her shorts.

“Melissa, I hope you learned today the lesson I had to learn.”  Melissa nodded, tears leaking from her eyes.  She couldn’t speak yet.  “I hope your mother would have approved.  And I hope one day you’ll be as glad for the lesson as I was.  Not then, of course, but much later.”

Melissa leaned forward and hugged her teacher.  “I think I will be,” she said softly.