The Piano Teacher

by Sophie Elliot

  Lucy cringed.

  ‘Stand up and turn around,’ said Miss Martin, coolly but firmly.

  Her ears burning, Lucy slowly stood up and did as she was told. Miss Martin sat before her, legs crossed, her earlier smiling demeanour replaced by a crisp determination. The teacher motioned for the pupil to come closer, and Lucy gingerly stepped around the piano stool.

  ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’ asked Miss Martin.

  ‘I-I did try, miss,’ Lucy stammered. ‘I think I took too much on, I...’

  Miss Martin waved a hand in irritation. ‘Excuses do not interest me,’ she said crossly. ‘Had you followed the plan I gave you there would be no problem. Your excuse is always the same, you silly girl. You must learn to do what you are told.’

  Lucy nodded respectfully, deeply ashamed of herself. She had failed again, just when she thought she was close to winning Miss Martin’s admiration. ‘Yes, miss,’ she mumbled, wondering what her punishment would be.

  Miss Martin uncrossed her legs. ‘Come closer, Lucy,’ she said jadedly, reaching out for her. ‘Once again, it seems, I must show you the error of your ways.’ Lucy took another step forward. ‘Hands on your head,’ ordered Miss Martin, and Lucy obeyed.

  The familiar scent of punishment was now everywhere, and the sublime sound of Miss Martin’s aristocratic inflexion seemed to amplify the sensual tension of the scene. The air was still, the distant ticking of the grandfather clock the only interruption in the timeless atmosphere. There was something eternal in the tableau, the younger neophyte submitting to her chastisement meekly under the auspices of her immutable, flawless mistress.

  Miss Martin reached for Lucy’s skirt, and in a moment it lay crumpled about her feet. Lucy then stood in her panties, her raised arms lifting the hem of her blouse high enough to expose her buttocks completely. She blushed brightly but held her position, knowing what would happen to her if she tried to resist. She felt the itch of arousal within, the beginning of the gradual escalation of excitement that always accompanied her punishments.

  With agonising slowness Miss Martin paused to flick some tiny speck of dust from her pristine glove. There was a quiet tut of disapproval, and Lucy shuddered at the faint sound of her mistress’s displeasure.

  Then Miss Martin’s slender fingers reached for the waistband of Lucy’s panties. Lucy had to screw her eyes shut and nibble her lip as the gentle, almost ticklish touch of her mistress’s fingertips sent her into rapture, her sex moistening as the gloved hands hovered near her most private parts. Slowly, as ever, Miss Martin’s fingers prised the white cotton panties from Lucy’s trembling flesh, two index fingers slipped inside the elastic, and a barely audible squeak of suppressed excitement passed Lucy’s lips.

  Miss Martin’s face was an expression of cool interest, a clinical regard for the proper methods of chastisement. Excruciatingly, further fingers were inserted inside Lucy’s panties. Keeping her hands on her head was the hardest thing in the world, Lucy thought, as her panties were gradually invaded by Miss Martin’s exploring hands. By now she was very damp, her whole body primed for chastisement, her thighs shivering tautly.

  Miss Martin then began to pull the delicate underwear down. Not quickly, as she might have done if in a rage at her charge’s incompetence, but teasingly, edging each side down by a fraction of an inch at a time, playing with Lucy as if she were a toy. Obediently, Lucy kept her posture despite the flush that illuminated her cheeks. Miss Martin smiled absently as the panties slid gently over Lucy’s smooth hips, exposing the top of her soft triangle of blonde hair. Lucy groaned, her arms wavering, the itch of excitement heavy in her loins. Cruelly, Miss Martin continued the descent, slipping the smooth cotton down past her moist and glistening sex, below the tops of her shivering thighs, until they rested tightly around her knees, her fresh pink womanhood completely uncovered.

  Then the hands were removed, and Miss Martin sat back and admired the view. Lucy stood, her hands on her head, her panties about her knees and her skirt a crumpled puddle on the floor. Miss Martin stroked Lucy’s leg with a careless hand, seemingly captivated by the beads of moisture that shimmered like pearls between her delicious pupil’s thighs. Her eyes were bright, a faint smile dancing on her lips.

  ‘Now, Lucy,’ she said, ‘please turn around and place your hands on the stool.’

  Her body bursting with a fearful excitement, Lucy did as she was bidden and bent from the hips, her arms straight and her palms placed apart on the velvet surface. Her legs were straight and slightly parted too, the sinews in her thighs and calves tensed, her taut buttocks presented beautifully. She found this the most awesome position of all; voluntarily bent over for a spanking with not even the hint of external restraint to offer an excuse for her compliance. She was Miss Martin’s slave, completely enthralled by the piano teacher’s irresistible aura. Lucy clenched her teeth, closed her eyes, and waited for the first stroke of her punishment.

  But what happened next was a surprise. Instead of the swish of Miss Martin’s wicked crop, or the sting of a palm, Lucy heard a click. It sounded for all the world as if a pen had been uncapped. She frowned, but dared not turn around and held her position. Then, with a ticklish sensation, she felt Miss Martin begin to stroke her buttocks with the nib of a broad felt-tip! Totally shocked, Lucy realised Miss Martin was writing on her bottom, and the thought of being used as something to write on was, despite its oddness, even more humiliating than being spanked. She remained bent over the stool, however, as her mistress coolly used her buttocks as the recipient of a message. Then after a few moments Miss Martin stopped writing.

  ‘You may stand up now, Lucy,’ she said briskly.

  Lucy obeyed, desperately curious to know what had been written on her, but Miss Martin had an unconcerned look about her, and screwed the lid back on the pen.

  ‘Pull your skirt up, girl,’ she said, snapping slightly. ‘But you may remove your knickers completely, as you won’t be needing them.’

  Completely confused, Lucy slipped her damp knickers over her shoes and then pulled her skirt up and fastened it. It was an odd sensation being fully dressed except for her panties, and with the extra knowledge that there was something written on her posterior.

  ‘Now,’ said Miss Martin. ‘I need some sheet music this week, and I don’t have time to go to Mr McLellan’s. As punishment for your inattentiveness I shall send you. Go now, quick as you can, pick up the correct music, and return it here. Your lesson will then be over for the week.’

  Lucy gulped involuntarily. ‘But, miss...’ she began, but faltered under the stare of her music teacher. How could she be expected to go out wearing a mock school uniform, and with no knickers on, at that? What if she saw someone she knew?

  Miss Martin stood up and adjusted Lucy’s collar and striped tie. ‘Now, dear Lucy,’ she said, ‘why don’t you run along and fetch the music like a good girl? I shall expect you back here in three-quarters of an hour.’

  Lucy’s shoulders slumped. There was no getting out of it.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ she said, and reluctantly turned to leave.

  Thankfully there were few people about as Lucy made her way quickly towards Mr McLellan’s shop. She wondered whether to take the tie off to lessen the effect, but immediately discarded that idea; Miss Martin was sure to find out somehow and arrange some suitable punishment - the woman seemed to have almost superhuman powers of detection.

  Lucy kept her head down as she scurried along, keen not to meet the eyes of anyone she might pass. She knew the pleated skirt was not as long as she would have liked, and was terrified lest Miss Martin’s writing was visible beneath the hem. Even worse, should some gust of wind or ill-placed obstacle catch the hem, she was all too aware of how exposed she was. As she walked the cool afternoon breeze licked about her, her thighs fresh against one another as she strode.

  The journey seemed to t
ake forever, but soon she neared Mr McLellan’s shop and the streets became busier. She picked up her pace to a trot, desperate to get out of the public glare. It took her a few minutes to find the place, and she ended up going down a number of wrong turns before finally stumbling across the familiar antiquated shop front.

  Once gratefully inside, it took a few moments to adjust to the dim atmosphere, but it was just as she remembered it; lines of musty old tomes against the walls, piles of manuscript paper, the air thick with dust and the smell of yellowing corners.

  Then, out of the shadows at the rear of the shop, emerged the figure of the music seller.

  ‘May I help you?’ he asked, in his deep, authoritarian voice.

  Lucy then became even more conscious of how she looked, and felt like a schoolgirl even more intensely than when Miss Martin reprimanded her. She cleared her throat nervously; what had Miss Martin written on her bottom?

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr McLellan,’ she said in a slightly wavering voice. ‘My name is Lucy Cavendish. Miss Martin has sent me to pick up some music for her.’

  Mr McLellan came closer, emerging into the light. He was wearing an old-fashioned tweed suit, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles hanging on the end of his aquiline nose. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said dryly. ‘Miss Cavendish. I remember you now. You came in some weeks ago for your first sheet music. How have the lessons gone?’

  Lucy had the feeling that Mr McLellan knew exactly what went on at Miss Martin’s lessons. All the people she’d bumped into since her initiation into Miss Martin’s world seemed to know everything about one another. It seemed a very select circle, and she decided most definitely to try and stay on Mr McLellan’s good side; he was rather too intimidating for anything else.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ she said politely. ‘I’ve learnt an awful lot.’

  Mr McLellan cleared his throat in what might have been a grim kind of laugh. ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘You certainly fit the uniform very pleasingly. Better than the last girl, anyway.’

  Lucy blushed again. His manner was quite disconcerting, almost scary. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, hoping the honorific would be in keeping, as it seemed wise to use the correct forms of address when dealing with such people.

  The music seller grunted what seemed to be some form of approval of something. ‘Right, what music does your mistress require?’

  Lucy frowned. ‘Did she not inform you, sir?’ she said, a sudden terrible doubt entering her mind.

  ‘I have no idea what she wants,’ said Mr McLellan, irritably. ‘Did she not make some note of it somewhere? Come on, girl, don’t waste my time.’

  Lucy’s heart sank. Miss Martin had, of course, made a note of it somewhere. Suddenly she became intensely aware of her bottom, nestled snugly in the cosy darkness of her pleated grey skirt. Surely she couldn’t tell Mr McLellan about the message there? But if she didn’t she had no idea what Miss Martin wanted. She cast her eyes around the dingy little shop, frantically trying to think of some way out of her predicament.

  Mr McLellan frowned deeply at her, his patience running short. ‘Well, Miss Cavendish?’

  ‘Well, I...’ she stumbled, not sure what to say.

  Mr McLellan whirled around in annoyance, shaking his head. ‘I’ve no time for this!’ he growled. ‘Come back when you’re mature enough to know what you want!’

  Lucy panicked; she could hardly go back to Miss Martin’s without the music. ‘Wait!’ she squeaked, and then shrank back as Mr McLellan turned again, a look of thunder etched on his face.

  ‘You are beginning to irritate me, young lady,’ he said in a deep, measured voice. ‘What is it now?’

  There was no alternative. ‘Miss Martin d-did give me a message,’ Lucy whispered.

  ‘Well, then?’ demanded the shopkeeper. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘On...’ Lucy took a deep breath, ‘...on my bottom, sir.’

  Mr McLellan raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘What?’ he barked. ‘I can’t hear you, girl.’

  Lucy’s cheeks blushed bright red, her fingers twisting with embarrassment. ‘On my bottom... sir.’

  Mr McLellan grinned - a not entirely pleasant grin. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so, girl?’ he questioned. ‘So she’s taken to doing that again, has she?’

  He again looked closely at Lucy, and she shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, not liking the eagerness she suddenly saw in his piggy eyes.

  ‘Right then, young miss,’ he said, ‘we’d better take you out to the back and see what your mistress wants, hadn’t we?’

  Lucy felt extremely uncomfortable, but there was nothing she could do. Returning to Miss Martin without the music would be deemed a terrible failure, and now that Mr McLellan knew why she had been sent she could hardly show weakness by fleeing like a silly girl. So she nodded anxiously, and waited to be told what to do. Mr McLellan went to the front door, bolted it and turned the closed sign, before ushering her through to a tiny room at the back.

  It was even more cluttered and claustrophobic than the shop. Piles of books littered every available space, making it necessary to pick one’s way through the clutter. Mr McLellan told her to wait, and then went back into the shop for something. Lucy looked around. On the desk in front of her sat the book she had glimpsed before, On the Education of the Female. She now knew much more about that particular topic, even though she had been on the receiving end of the punishment more often than not. She stood quietly in the middle of the dank room, her hands clasped behind her back. She knew that Mr McLellan would demand to see the order written on her bottom, but she didn’t know what was keeping him. A rather strange mixture of feelings coursed through her; she had decided that she was rather scared of the music seller, but as always the prospect of being made to perform some sort of submissive act at Miss Martin’s behest filled her with the curious arousal which had become so familiar to her over recent weeks.

  Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by his return, and he was carrying a long thin case that he placed amongst the muddle on the desk. Increasingly he was unsettling her; he was obviously relishing the prospect of whatever what was to come.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, his greedy eyes devouring her, ‘we had better see what Miss Martin was after, had we not?’

  Having got this far Lucy knew there was no way out of her predicament, but she was loath to expose herself in front of the odious man. She nodded weakly, wondering what came next, and the man motioned her closer to the desk.

  ‘There’s a good girl,’ he said softly, as though not wanting to alarm a timid kitten. He stroked her back with a clammy hand, and Lucy shuddered. This was a real punishment, and no mistake.

  ‘Now, bend over please, Miss Cavendish,’ said Mr McLellan, shuffling behind her to get a better view.

  Blushing madly, and with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, Lucy slowly bent over the desk as she had been taught by her music mistress; legs together, bottom firm, resting on her elbows over the tabletop. She heard a murmur of approval from behind and knew she made an alluring sight, her smooth thighs pale and bare, the down-sweep of her taut buttocks no doubt visible beneath the grey pleats of her skirt.

  ‘Let’s see what we have here, then,’ he murmured, clearly engrossed and savouring his task.

  Lucy felt cold fingers fumbling at the hem and suppressed a shudder. Slowly, with a lingering cruelty, Mr McLellan lifted her skirt to reveal Miss Martin’s order. Lucy was left totally exposed, her bottom vulnerably displayed as she bent over the desk, her skirt resting neatly on her back. Mr McLellan made sounds of considerable approval.

  ‘Very good,’ he said lasciviously. ‘Very good indeed. What a lovely behind you have, young lady. I understand what Miss Martin sees in you - all too often, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Lucy grimaced. She felt invaded by this ogling, violated by hi
s devouring eyes. She closed hers, trying to forget the drooling presence over her shoulder.

  Mr McLellan sniggered, a grating, unpleasant sound. ‘Oh dear, it seems we have been a naughty girl. Your mistress has charged me with a little instruction along with her music order. Would you like to know what she wrote?’

  Lucy cringed; surely not a spanking? The humiliation of having to bend over and expose her naked bottom to this unpleasant man was enough. Nonetheless, it was agonising not knowing what was written on her. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, trying to hide the shame and discomfort in her voice.

  ‘Very well,’ said the music seller. ‘She wrote: “To Mr McLellan. Please send one copy of Beethoven Bagatelles to the usual address. In addition, I would be grateful if you would punish this naughty student for me. Regards, Miss M”. Oh, my dear, what did you do?’

  ‘I... I failed to follow her practise instructions, sir,’ she said contritely, hoping good behaviour would lessen her punishment.

  Mr McLellan tutted. ‘That’s very bad,’ he said seriously. ‘We really can’t have that.’

  He leaned over to the case and opened it with a flick of his fingers. He then drew out a thin cane, curved at the end in the traditional style. He swished it through the air once, making Lucy wince and her thighs clench involuntarily, but she stayed in position.

  ‘No doubt Miss Martin thought you were getting a little used to your cosy spankings,’ he said, his eyes running up and down the length of the implement. ‘Perhaps you had forgotten what a real punishment is like. It’s not all silk gloves and frilly lace panties, you know.’

  At that, he placed the tip of the cane lightly against Lucy’s bottom. She trembled slightly. It felt cold and threatening. A part of her wanted to give in, to try and get out of the shop and run home, but a deeper part forced her to stay put. She knew she had to endure her chastisement if she was to progress.

  ‘Please, sir...’ she began, her voice trembling.