The following story was written for, and is based on an idea by, rtj65, the winner of a writing content 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, winning. At times like this he wished he did not have a musical ear.
“Perhaps,” Violet replied airirily. 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, anxious 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 realize you were the piano police. With all your musical training and everything.”
“You’re not much of an advertisement for musical training, dummy.”
“And you’re not much of an advertisement 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 leaves.
“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 confused from its exciting 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 neighborhood 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 weekends 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 impractical 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 among 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 clearerly 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, statistics along the driveway… Violet ranng 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 obviously 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 creativity,” 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 seriously.”
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 caresing her pert bottom at the same time. She played once again; but her left hand proved no more satisfaction 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 blow.”
“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 dmphrmrfmn 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 sensitively into her… gag. It was called a gag, wasn’t it? Rather effective, Rose thought, raising an eyebrow and blushing very slightly herself.) Still unsatisfied, the teacher brought out a broad leather collar and fitted this around Violet’s throat, forcing her chin up in a way that seemed both cruel and humiliating.
“There, you disobedient little monster: that will fix your posture. Now play!”
“Bnph hnmm cnn Mn pmnm wmnphh mm wmrnphphphph bhnnnn?”
“You can play with your cute little nose for all I care!”
“Ymph, phnr.”
6
It was almost impossible for the poor girl, with her arms bound tight behind her back and the posture collar further restricting her movements, but Violet was determined to obey. Still Sitting stiffly and maintaining a rigid posture, she bent at the waist and began to peck gently at the keys with her nose (which was, accidentally, just as cute as M. Ligotage had claimed). She could only play one note at a time, and she did so slowly and clumsily; every now and then a small amount of drool would plop down on to the keyboard. It was all very demeaning, and Rose was mortified for her friend… until she noticed the tiniest twinkle in her eye.
“Dear me,” said M. Ligotage, in a tone that seemed half appalled and half amused. “This won’t do at all. Such lazy playing. You wicked, disobedient girl! Get up!”
Violet struggled to her feet, a task impeded by the high heels, the cord about her ankles, the strict arm bindings and the posture collar. She stood up straight, proud and defiant despite her brutally tight restraints, and then hoped rather precariously over to her teacher’s chair.
“Bend over.”
“Ymph, phnr.”
Violet did as she was ordered, and M. Ligotage began to spank her. Each contact on her pert little bottom was accompanied by a squeak into her gag, and a scolding comment.
SMACK
“Hmmphh!”
“Lazy!”
SMACK
“Hmmphh!”
“Disobedient!”
SMACK
“Hmmphh!”
“Ill-mannered little strumpet!”
And so on. Rose lost count after 15 firm spanks, but M. Ligotage persisted until Violet was exhausted, blushing, and thoroughly chasted. She moaned quietly into the gag and it sounded like an admission of defeat.
“That’s better. Now go and stand in the corner.”
“Ymph, phnr.”
Blindfolded as she was, Violet was in no position to find her way to the corner. So M. Ligotage generally shepherded her over there, using spanks whenever she hoped in the wrong direction. When he was satisfied with her position – facing the wall, standing ramrod straight – he went and fetched a large concert dunce’s cap and placed it on her head. It made her look very foolish, and he couldn’t help chuckling.
“Ha! That’s how we treat sausage-fingered bunglers. Anything to say, dummy?”
“Nn, phnr.”
“Good. You can stay there and keep quiet while I show you how the piece should be played.”
Rose thoughht she heard one last and very soft moan, but Violet’s behavior was otherwise exemplary. She remained quiet and absolutely still while M. Ligotage huffed, straightened his tie, sat down at the piano and began to play.
7
He might have been a pervert, and she very much doubted that he was French, but Rose was obliged to admit that M. Ligotage had talent. She had never heard anything quite like it. The piano, which had groaned and protected under Violet’s assault, was now a different beast entirely: delicate, sombre, harmonic. The player, Rose noted, did not pay his pretty captive the slightest heed for the duration of the piece, even when her good behavior lapsed and she began to squirm and mewl for attention. He was entirely lost in the music, the contrasting lines interweaving like voices in a dream, and Rose was lost there with him.
So entered was she by the gentleman’s playing – and, just possible, the other circumstances of the scene she hadJust witnessed – that she found herself involuntarily humming along. As soon as she realized what she was doing, she stopped. But it was too late.
“Who is there? Show yourself!”
The spell broken, M. Ligotage leaves from his seat, discovered Rose at once in her hiding place behind the curve, and grabbed her by the arm.
“A burglar! How dare you enter my home!”
Dismayed, she remembered what she was wearing. The black jumper and short skirt were super cute, but the mask was rather suspicious for an unexpected visitor.
“Oh no, I’m not – ow!”
Rose squeaked with pain as the teacher forced her to the floor, sat on her legs, and wronged her arms behind her back.
“Please, there’s no need to-“
Even through her jumper she could feel the bite of the cord as her wrists were tied tightly together.
“Be silent while I bind you, criminal scum. There’ll be plenty of time for explanations when the police arrive.”
“No, don’t call the – ouch! That’s too tight!”
Rose’s elbows were quickly and painfully lashed together. Then M. Ligotage lifted her torso from the carpet to slip several loops under her body, tightening about her chest above and below her breasts. It was alarming how rapidly the man was able to render her helpless.
“Violet! Please help!”
“Rnphm? Wmhm nrm ymn hmrm?”
“Don’t be alert, Violet. I won’t let this dangerous maniac hurt you.”
Rose couldn’t see what danger she could possibly present, bound and helpless as she was. And growing more so by the minute, as the teacher moved methodically up her slim bare legs – Shwip! Shwip! Shwip! – securing them with snug loops of cord. Finally satisfied that she was thoroughly subdued, he left the poor girl wriggling on the floor and pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“Not the police – please! This was all a mix-up, I promise.” Rose thrashed against the ropes but could find no hints of weakness or slack. He had more talents, obviously, than just music.
“Wait.” M. Ligotage looked down at his bound prisoner. “How did you know her name was Violet?”
“I’m her roommate, Rose. I came to spy on her, I’m sorry. I just wanted to know more about these lessons!”
“Is that so?” He put away the phone and smiled. “And what is your conclusion?”
“That I want to start having lessons too.”
“Ha!” He looked mollified now. “How very interesting. Well, I shall consider your application. But before you touch a key, you must work on your listening. And for that, we will need peace and quiet. Isn’t that right, Violet?”
“Ymph, phnr.”
“And do you agree, Rose?”
A brief hesitation. Then: “Yes, sir.”
The teacher strode over to Rose, pulling something from his pocket. Not the phone, but another gag: a magnificent red specimen, exactly like the one currently adorning Violet. He jammed it unexpectedly into Rose’s mouth, buckled the straws tightly behind her head, gave her a cheerful swat on the bottom and returned to his seat.
“And now, if you wicked creativity are quite finished, we can return to the piece.”
M. Ligotage smiled preferably at his blushing captives, took a breath, and began once again to play. He really was awfully good.
FIN
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