Fuck! Another botched note. Had I suddenly forgotten what key I was supposed to be playing in? Whatever. I shook my head in exasperation, shifted my hands a half an inch, and started playing again from the beginning of the measure. But Dave sighed and put his hand on mine to stop me. "Chill out and take a break for a second, okay?"
Dave, as you've probably guessed by now, was my piano teacher; in fact, he had been for the last four or five years. I had just turned 18, and in his mid-to-late twenties, Dave was almost ten years older than me. But that didn't stop me from admiring him. Everything about him exuded confidence and authority, but without a hint of arrogance -- in fact, he had never been anything but quite kind to me. He was the type of man I could imagine just as easily as the President of the United States or as an affable teacher. And I had never asked him what he did besides teach piano, for fear of ruining the mystery. And of course, his physical attractiveness completed the ensemble. A foot taller than I was, and thin -- but strong, without being overly buff. I don't think it would be a stretch to say I had always had a crush on Dave.
I have been told I'm cute my whole life, but I've never known whether to believe it. I mean, people will say anything to be nice, right? My long, straight black hair and slightly olive skin were the only attractive things I got from my mother's racial background; everything else came from my lily-white mother. I was 5'6'', but I might have been cheating and measuring with shoes on. And I knew girls in middle school with breasts larger than mine, but hey -- at least I had something there. I guess my only real assets were my butt and legs. The former was small and tight but still very round; the latter were long for my height, slender, and slightly toned. I always tended to wear tight, high-cut dresses to accentuate my two favorite features, especially -- I'm ashamed to admit -- when I was around Dave.
"Katie, what's wrong? Over the years I've taught you everything from Twinkle Twinkle Little Stars to Beethoven, and this is the first time I've seen you play a piece so badly that you claim to have thoroughly practiced. Either you lied about practicing at home, which I doubt, or something's on your mind besides the piano. Which is it?"
I don't know whether it was the "President of the United States" aspect of his personality, or the "affable teacher", but the fact is, I had always felt I could trust Dave completely. And since he had ordered me to spill the beans in that voice that was stern without being harsh, I felt compelled to answer.
"It's my boyfriend... we just got into a fight. He said there was no point dating me if I wouldn't "put out". But my mom raised me pretty traditionally, and I just don't think some high school fling is, well..."
Although we had never talked about anything so personal before, Dave didn't hesitate to finish my sentence for me, saying what I was too embarrassed to. "You don't think it's the right context to lose your virginity in?"
I blushed and let out a nervous grin, almost a chuckle. Anyway, back to business. I noticed Dave's hand was still touching mine, and I brushed it off, preparing to start playing again. But Dave had a different idea. Moving his hand to rest on the bare skin above my knee, moving my dress up just a hair by doing so, he asked: "Well, I don't think you want to hold onto it forever. So what would be the right context?"
I was too busy dealing with the electric shock that shot up my leg with his touch to answer with anything but a sharp intake of breath and an increased heartrate. Even after processing what he had said, I realized it was a question I had never even thought about. But Dave didn't see the need to wait for a response. Fighting against the fabric of my dress to push his right hand slowly towards my thigh, he used his left to brush my hair out of my face, before settling with his palm and fingers around the side of my neck and his thumb on my cheek. He moved in until his face was so close to mine that I could feel his breath, and said, softly, "well, you'd better figure that out, hadn't you?"
I was more turned on by those two strategically-placed hands than I had ever been in the most passionate make-out session with my boyfriend. As Dave started to draw away from me as if nothing had happened, I put my arms around his head and lunged at him for a very awkward but still decidedly enjoyable kiss.
"Damn. I'm glad my boyfriend wasn't here to see that. I have no idea why I kissed you. Sorry. Let's just get back to this song and forget that ever happened, okay? I mean, I like you, and all, but you're my teacher, and I'm not single, and besides--"
Whatever was to come after "besides", it was too muffled for Dave to hear it. He had placed his hand forcefully on my mouth, preventing me from emitting anything more than a muffled cry of surprise. But I didn't resist. I couldn't quite understand why, but I was even more turned on than I had been before. When Dave started planting very soft kisses around my neck a moment later, I actually started moaning into his hand. His kisses lingered on my earlobe before he whispered: "I'm going to give you instructions, and you're going to follow them. You can't speak right now, so I won't ask you if you understand or are okay with that. But based on the sounds you're making, I assume you are. Now for my first instruction. Take off your shirt."
This had crossed the line. I was able, using two hands, to force his hand off my mouth. "No! Stop it! I'm sorry Dave, I just can't do this. I'm going home." I got up to try to leave, but he grabbed my hands and put them behind my back, holding them there with his strong left arm, as he put his legs around me to completely prevent me from using. With his right hand, he slapped me as hard as he could across the face. I let out a few whimpers of pain, then just tried to concentrate on breathing as he ran his hand down from where he had just slapped me, slowing down over my breasts for just a moment, over my stomach and down my leg, and then back up my dress. I tried to struggle against his other hand holding me still, but to no use. He got his hand up my dress, and gently touched the front of my panties, which by this point were wetter than they had ever been."
"I wouldn't do this to you if you weren't enjoying it, Katie. Now let me explain how this is going to work. Obey me, and you will have a first sexual experience that you will remember for life. Disobey, and, well... let's just say you'll also remember it for life, but it won't be for the enjoyment. Is that clear?" I answered him by spitting in his face. He seemed unphased by this, and caressed my breast gently with his free hand before pinching my nipple roughly and then striking me across the face even harder than before.
"You've just earned yourself a punishment. Would you like to be tied to this piano bench for it, or tied to my bed?" I realized that I had nothing to gain from resisting anymore, and his dictatorial manner was still making me hot. I figured that it would be better if I just went with it instead of fighting back when I knew I couldn't win.
"Bed, Dave. The bench sounds uncomfortable."
"Well", he replied, "uncomfortable is exactly what I'm aiming for. But I'll honor your request. He grabbed my arm and roughly pulled me out of the bench and led me towards his bedroom. Five minutes later, I was bound with rope face-down to his bed. He had made the ropes securing my legs to the bedpost just long enough so that my legs weren't quite stretched out, leaving me in a sort of kneeling position with my ass, barely covered by the dress, hanging in the air. "I was going to forgive you for refusing my first order, but I guess I'll have to punish you for that as well as for spitting on me. I can tell by the way you've looked at me over the years that you want me to dominate you, though, so I guess it won't be much of a punishment. Anyway, fifty strikes of my hand on your ass. For each transgression. That makes 100, in case you're as bad at math as you were at the piano today. Oh, one more thing -- in the purse you left on my counter when you came in, is there a hairbrush?"
"Yes", I answered.
"Good. Five strokes with the hairbrush too. So ten total."
I thought about protesting, but didn't want to make my punishment worse. And God, I felt like I was about to come already just by the way he was talking to me. So in spite of my inhibitions, I decided to refer to him by a title that I had always fantasized about calling him.
"Yes, Sir."
