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Monday, 23 January 2017

Musical Interlude

Mr Dupont takes up his baton. Story from Blushes 1
An onlooker, if he remained unmoved by the drama of the scene being played out in the sitting room of Mr Dupont’s little house; if he were insensitive to the plight of the girl struggling to maintain sufficient composure at the piano to soldier on with her practise piece, might have closed his eyes and settled back in one of the chintz armchairs and listened to the music and its accompaniment.
The piano, played hesitantly and inexpertly, lent a background to the overlaid effects of percussion and solo soprano voice. Soft swits and plupps kept time rather better than the slim fingers on the keys, with now and then a sharper swatt which seemed always to interrupt and detract from the girls dutiful efforts.
The softer noises were the result of a short, springy cane being tapped rhythmically against the velvet upholstery of the piano stool. Mr Dupont maintained the cadence by beating time in this way, livening up the doleful tinkling of the girl’s efforts every few bars by swishing his ‘baton’ up and under the plump protuberance of his pupil’s bottom jutting over the near edge of the stool, proffered obediently though unwillingly by the pianist.
The ‘solo voice’, high-pitched though invariably out of tune with the piano, relieved the rather dragging quality of the playing, though it seemed to interrupt the player’s concentration more than a little.
The onlooker on this occasion was not, it must be said, unmoved by the performance being staged primarily for his benefit. A weighty gentleman, sixty if he was a day, opened his eyes as the frantic, frightened squeal of the girl at the piano followed instantly upon the delivery of one of those sharper, painful-sounding swhatts! Slumped comfortably in his chair, he watched fascinated as the girl’s much-punished buttocks squeezed themselves together at the first sting then squirmed dismally against the velvet of the stool.
With her summer dress pinned up to her shoulders the hollow of her back was bare, and the close hug of the waistband of her knickers puckered along the line of the elastic and eased out where the outward swell of her hips filled the white cotton pants. Several rucks and creases dived down between the division of her plump young buttocks, resulting from the tight tuck of the pants up into the crease where the teacher, wielding the cane, had yanked them at the beginning of the practise, maintaining the bareness of most of the target area by frequent readjustment of the immodestly arranged knickers.
The girl lifted involuntarily from her seat as another swift ‘swish’ brought the cane up under the reddened, wealed cheeks, slumping forward over the keyboard as she snatched her hands behind her to clutch at her trembling bottom. Her gasping, panting breaths suddenly shortened, pent up for a moment, then broke out in a series of quiet sobs. The piano remained silent as the girl wept, the cane no longer tapping on the stool but hovering behind, wavering as though tempted to deliver another solid stroke yet holding back as if to see how far the girl’s obedience would override her natural reluctance to leave her bottom unprotected by her hands.
Slowly she regained her self-control, and her fingers returned to the keyboard. The cane resumed its tapping though now it patted the hot and tender skin of the girl’s bum cheeks rather than the stool. Several notes sounded before the cane flicked waspishly across the shivering cheeks again. The playing stopped and the weeping recommenced, louder this time and less under control. The girl half stood up from the stool, her knees bent and the soft backs of her thighs showing below her bothered bum.
Whack! The cane slipped in just above the height of the stool and landed squarely across both legs. The girl yelped and straightened up, the stool crashed to the floor behind. She stood and stooped forward, hands rubbing at the freshening cane marks behind her thighs, while her sobs gathered volume and she turned her head to gaze with pleading red-rimmed eyes at the man who sat so unflinchingly and watched her mounting distress.
At last he seemed satisfied, and he nodded to the man with the cane as a sign that they need go on with the girl’s humiliation no longer.
‘Frankly, Mr Dupont, I don’t think she has improved. Do you?’
‘No, not much. It’s a question of application, you see: I don’t believe she really does her best.
‘No, I think I agree with you. What shall we do with her? Carry on with the lessons?’
‘Yes. In due course I dare say we shall secure some improvement.’
‘Very well then. Same time next Tuesday?’
‘Yes, will you be coming with her?’
‘Oh, yes. I like to see where my money’s going.’
The girl’s dress was unpinned for her and she stood easing her knickers back to their proper place around her buttocks, her sobs dying away to be replaced by sniffling. The man and his daughter departed, the cane being laid on the piano keyboard and the lid lowered, ready for Mr Dupont’s next lesson. It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.  

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