The following story was written for, and is based on an idea by, rtj65, the winner of a writing contest I hosted earlier this year. It features bondage, punishment and submission; reader discretion is advised.
1
"I believe that was supposed to be an F sharp," said Mr Set, wincing. At times like this he wished he did not have a musical ear.
"Perhaps," Violet replied airily. Undaunted, she continued to hammer at the piano with the random violence of an inner-city turf war. Her style reminded Rose of an elephant having a seizure.
"The F sharp is the black note to the right of the F."
"Thank you Mr Set, I know!"
"The F is the white note to the right of-" Mr Set's wisdom was drowned out by a flurry of wild stabbing at the extreme treble end. This section was marked
pianissimo
, he noted with a frown.
"There!" Violet finished with a brutal flourish. "I hope you enjoyed it. What would you like to hear next?"
"Oh, er, thank you for the concert," said Mr Set, hurrying towards the door with a sepulchral expression and his hands over his ears. "Let me know if you have any more problems with the radiator!"
Rose waved at their landlord and closed the door behind him. "I can see why you never want to play in front of an audience," she laughed. "Are you sure these lessons are worth the money?"
"Oh I'm sorry," Violet replied, flushing slightly. "I didn't realise you were the piano police. With all your musical training and everything."
"You're not much of an advert for musical training, dummy."
"And you're not much of an advert for knowing when to shut the fuck up if you don't want a dead arm!"
Rose laughed and fled to her room, blonde hair flying. But part of her brain kept whirring. Six months of lessons, and this was the best Violet could do? It was a mystery, for sure.
2
It had been January when Violet came up with the idea: she would finally learn to play the piano, just as she had always wanted. Another silly resolution, Rose had assumed, quickly forgotten; her friend, when not sailing with baffling ease through her law exams, was notoriously scatterbrained. But then she found the leaflet.
"Look!" the pretty brunette had cried, dashing through the door of the flat they had shared since leaving university two years before. "It's fate! I'm going to be a pianoist!"
"That's 'pianist', dummy," Rose replied. "And what are you talking about?"
"This leaflet! The finest music teacher in London is taking pupils! Fate, I tell you!"
A brief and good-natured tussle; and finally the leaflet was confiscated from its excitable possessor and spread out on the kitchen table. It advertised the services of one Monsieur Ligotage, who boasted of an extensive musical education in Paris and now made his living teaching the piano this side of the Channel. "I will whip you into shape, or your money back," he pledged. There was an accompanying photo of a tall and severe-looking gentleman looming over a piano. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a tidy moustache, and a dissolute air.
The girls looked at each other.
"Don't you agree?" said Violet, at length. "Promising, right?"
"Oh yes," said Rose. "Not sketchy at all."
3
If Violet had spent six months taking lessons and still couldn't play "Chopsticks" without upsetting the neighbourhood cats, it raised serious concerns about Monsieur Ligotage's working practices. The more Rose thought about it, the more she worried that Violet was being exploited. And so she hatched a plan. She would follow Violet to her next lesson and see what was going on.
This, however, was easier said than done.
It began with an early start. On weekdays Violet rose at nine, having apparently convinced her boss that lateness was excusable if you were sufficiently cute; but on Saturdays she sprang out of bed at seven and was dressed and out the door by half past.
Speaking of clothing, Rose could not understand why a piano lesson required such a formal outfit: a spotless white shirt and dark striped tie, tight black pencil skirt with a leather belt, stockings, and a set of impractically lofty high heels. This too was out of character. Before starting the lessons, Violet had been known for her casual dress sense, preferring simple trousers and tops when working and hoodies and jeans on her free time. But M. Ligotage seemed to have taught her to dress well, if nothing else.
The early start began to make sense as the journey progressed... and progressed, and progressed. Violet took three buses across what felt like most of north London, Rose doing her best to hide amongst the crowd each time she changed, before embarking on a long walk along a disused railway line. The two were utterly alone, and at this point it seemed inevitable that the spy would be spotted by her quarry. Fortunately, Rose had cleverly thought to wear her "sexy burglar" costume from Halloween - an extremely snug black sweater and short black skirt, plus a mask - which made it easier to hide in the shadows. And in any case Violet seemed to be in a world of her own.
After some time they turned off the railway line and walked up an overgrown path dotted with gas lamps, which led eventually to a house, desolate and crumbling. Perhaps "house" was the wrong word. There were wings, a stable, statues along the driveway... Violet rang the bell and waited; after several minutes the door opened and she slipped inside without Rose being able to see who had let her in. She paused and wondered what to do.
Then she spotted a window with a pane of glass missing. She reached through and unhooked the latch, held her breath, then followed her friend inside.
4
The lesson, Rose soon discovered, was taking place in what had evidently once served as a ballroom. The space was decorated with antiquated fittings and photographs, while the watery grey light of a British summer filtered down through a skylight and illuminated master and pupil. Violet sat at a grand piano and was wearing a blindfold; her teacher occupied an armchair to one side.
"You may begin," said M. Ligotage, in tones more redolent of the Seven Sisters Road than the Champs-Élysées. "And I must warn you, young lady, that I expect an improvement."
Violet nodded solemnly, took a deep breath - as did Rose, watching spellbound - and began to play.
She was attempting the Aria from Bach's
Goldberg Variations
... the key word being "attempting". The piece was obviously, almost comically beyond the poor girl's capabilities. Her technique was bad; her touch was faulty; her F sharps sounded suspiciously like G flats; her tempo was occasionally too fast, mostly too slow, and never consistent for more than two bars together. And from a certain obstinate expression she knew all too well, Rose was sure that her roommate was getting notes wrong on purpose.
At length, mercifully, the performance was over. Violet sat quietly and waited.
"You are a wicked, lazy creature," said M. Ligotage.
"Yes, sir."
"I did not think it was possible, but you have actually got
worse
this week."
"I'm sure you're right, sir."
"You must be punished severely."
The faintest ghost of a smile. "Whatever you say, sir. But I don't think it will help..."
5
And so began a series of exercises that Rose was pretty sure appeared in no known manuals of musical instruction. Indeed it did not seem possible that the corrective measures could help Violet to play better; several made it almost impossible for her to play at all.
To begin with, citing concerns about Violet's misuse of the pedal, M. Ligotage produced a bundle of slim cord and carefully bound the girl's ankles together. (Rose noticed that he stroked his pupil's shapely, stockings-clad legs while securing the bonds. Typical, she thought to herself.) Violet wriggled a little, perhaps experimentally, but it quickly became apparent that she no longer had the power to walk, or even to lift one foot independently of the other.
Unfortunately, this failed to produce any discernible improvement in her playing.
Next, M. Ligotage decided that Violet needed to focus on her weaker left hand. To achieve this, he used more cord to secure her right hand to the back of her belt, knotting it tightly in place and (no doubt entirely by accident) gently caressing her pert bottom at the same time. She played once again; but her left hand proved no more satisfactory in isolation, and the alleged Frenchman was more displeased than ever.
"It's your posture," he said grumpily. "We must amend your posture."
"If the pupil's playing is faulty," Violet pointed out, "then it may be argued that the teacher is to blame."
"Silence."
"Six months of lessons and this is the best I can do? Dear me, that looks rather bad for you, doesn't it?"
"Silence! Little monkey-"
M. Ligotage pulled a peculiar object from his pocket: a large shiny red ball attached to a web of leather straps. Some sort of metronome, perhaps? Rose's eyes widened as the teacher brought it closer and closer to his pupil, before jamming it deep into her mouth and strapping it tightly in place. A muzzle of some sort. What on earth-
"Mn phnppnphm Mn dmphmrfmn phhnph," said Violet, who appeared to be having trouble speaking.
"You did. Now hold still."
This time the teacher left nothing to chance. He bound Violet's wrists together behind her back, then did the same to her elbows for good measure; this drew back her shoulders and forced her into a rigid, upright posture. (The bonds had the side effect, as M. Ligotage drew the ropes as tight as he was able, of causing Violet to gasp, blush, and moan sensually into her...
