A Mr Dupont story from Roué 12
There is something of a crisis in Poland. The voice on the radio says so, between crackles. An ulti — ffzzphutt has been delivered to the German Ambassador in London and a reply requested by phhssstt — o’clock. Should a satisfactory answer not be forthcoming —
The room is a little out-of-date in its furnishings. The piano has seen better days, as have the spindly plants which now and then shed a leaf with a dry, rustling sound. The rug is rather threadbare and the sunlight sets off the dustiness of the furniture in general. Only the old piano has been kept polished, and rightly so, since it is the music teacher’s livelihood, that piano. The piano, and his reputation for achieving outstanding results with his pupils. Particularly the girls.
In front of the window stands a slim-legged circular table, on its top a pile of yellow-edged music sheets and a safety pin. In front of the table stands a slim-legged, blonde-haired girl, whose hands fumble at shoulder-level behind her back as she tries to fasten her dress hem to the yoke of her dress with another safety pin. The lower part of her back is bare — she wears no petticoat, the weather being so warm — and the cheeky plump of her young bottom fills the cotton-crispness of her white knickers perfectly. The radio declares that air-raid precautions will be shhizzt as from phutt!
The second pin is easier than the first. The girl turns away from the window, the pinned-up dress pulling itself high up the front of her thighs. She parts her lips, about to speak, about to say that, however unwillingly, she is now just about ready for her lesson. She is anticipated by her music teacher. He is just about ready for her lesson.
‘Yes — ready, Mr Dupont.’
April — that is the girl’s name — goes around the end of the piano, avoiding the plant in its Victorian pot. She slides in between the piano and the stool, the closeness of the two obliging her to bend her knees slightly so that she has to stand with her bottom pushed out a little. A little more than she would actually like it to be as a matter of fact, since she is feeling especially conscious of her bottom at the moment. Her knickers pull gently across the roundness of her bum-cheeks, and with an unconscious action she pulls at the waistband to snug them up a fraction tighter, succeeding only in making her bum appear the fuller in the doing.
Mr Dupont produces the key to the piano from his waistcoat pocket. He attempts to insert the key into the lock. It is found that April has thoughtlessly positioned herself so that she is obscuring the keyhole with her standing there. Or almost so. The gentlest of pushes at one hip ensures that she is in fact doing just that.
‘Um — excuse me a moment —’ says Mr Dupont.
April pulls her thighs an inch or so away from the piano so that her teacher can try again. His hand brushes her legs. April edges further away from the piano — her bottom pushes out still more provocatively. The key obstinately refuses to slip into the keyhole, while April’s balance has to be maintained with Mr Dupont’s free hand up under her buttocks. Considering how frequently this problem arises it is a little surprising that Mr Dupont has not considered unlocking the piano prior to the commencement of the lesson. However, there is a way.
The key is retrieved. April is made to press herself against the piano — made to open her legs, to pull up her dress at the front. The key, and Mr Dupont’s hand, is slipped between April’s thighs, the thumb brushing without apparent concern against the swell of the girl’s knickers at the apex of her legs. The key slides into the lock. April trembles. The key is turned.
Mr Dupont slips the key back into his pocket. April lifts the lid. The radio announcer says that Mr Chamberlain is quoted as having said phuzztt! Mr Dupont goes to switch the wireless off, while April, bottom once more thrust out behind her by virtue of the cramped position of her standing, stares down at the knobble-ended cane which the opening of the keyboard lid has revealed. She and it — or more particularly it and her bottom — have made acquaintance on a number of other occasions. The cheeks of April’s bum tweak in recognition, while the cane makes no sign of acknowledgement.
Mr Dupont returns. April’s out-thrust bottom jiggles from the stimulus of a carefully placed slap which cups a buttock and lingers against the back of a thigh. Her hips sway a little to one side in mute protest as her knickers are slipped down. Her bared buttocks are satiny-smooth and palest pink. The cane rattles against the keys and tinkles a note which fades quickly away, and April stands with her bottom pushing out until she is allowed to sit down. Mr Dupont makes sure that the stool is tucked well under the piano keyboard. April’s round young bottom overhangs the seat by some six inches, knickers gathered around the tops of her thighs.
Mr Dupont seats himself on a little chest at one end of the piano, and suggests that April starts with the piece she has been practising at home. The keys are reluctant to obey April’s fingers at first. The cane stretches itself languidly across the curve of her naked bum, chill and threatening. Somehow April manages to coax the keys into doing what the composer intended. The cane slides around to the underside of her cheeks where it settles into a rhythmic tapping across the width of her bare buttocks. Its sound is barely audible above the melody. It pats the two resilient cheeks in waltz-time. Platt! — plut — plut — Platt! — plut — plut. April stumbles on through the piece, mistakes tumbling across the keyboard. The cane keeps up its steady beat, barely tingling the girl’s bottom and taking no apparent heed of the ineptitude of her playing.
April finishes the piece. She puts her hands onto her head. She thrusts her bottom out a fraction further.
Switt! Switt! Swhittt!
April’s bum twitches helplessly as the cane lands stingingly across the crown of her obediently proffered buttocks.
‘Again, please,’ says Mr Dupont.
‘Yes, Mr Dupont —.’ April attempts the piece again, with the cane smacking up under her bottom in time with the music.
She reaches the end. Puts her hands reluctantly on her head. Looks miserably at her music teacher. Is caned again, with more vigour in the delivery.
‘Ooooh! Ooooooo — !’
‘Practise harder!’ says Mr Dupont.
‘I will — I will — !’ gasps April.
The lesson proceeds. Another piece is attempted. The cane beats time, a little more stingingly. April’s bottom bobs nervously on the stool and her playing deteriorates. She is caned again — and again — and again. She cries constantly.
After something like an hour Mr Dupont delves in his pocket for his watch. Five to eleven. Time for one more piece.
April squirms her way through it, bottom scarlet and tears splashing from her cheeks onto the piano keys.
‘You may pull your knickers up April,’ says Mr Dupont.
‘Yes Mr Dupont! Thank you Mr Dupont!’
April’s knickers cannot quite encompass the cane-wealed redness of her bottom. Several stripes extend beyond the tight fit of her pants, the hotness of the marks looking the more painful against the clean white of her underclothes.
There is the distant rapping of a door-knocker, Mr Dupont unpins April’s dress, then goes to answer the door. April knuckles her eyes and struggles against the renewed onset of tears.
The florid-faced woman who lumbers into the room with two suitcases is April’s mother. She is followed by Mr Dupont. The woman doesn’t miss her daughter’s red-eyed look.
‘She bin a bad girl again, Mr Dupont? ‘Ave you April?’
Mr Dupont eyes April from over her mother’s shoulder.
‘Yes mum,’ says April dismally.
‘Well you’ll just ‘ave to practise ‘arder, won’t you my girl! Mr Dupont’s much too busy to waste ‘is time with a girl what won’t work. He’s bin very good to you, ‘e ‘as! Lord knows, we couldn’t afford to pay half what these lessons of yours cost — not if Mr Dupont wasn’t so good about the fees.’
April’s mum deposits the two suitcases on the floor beside several others. She turns to Mr Dupont.
‘I’m ever so grateful to you Mr Dupont, I really am, what with the news bein’ so bad and all. I’ll feel ever so much better with April down in the country for a bit. She could ‘ave gone with the other kids — ‘alf the street’s bin evacuated y’know — the kids I mean — but as I said to my Alfie, I said, if she can get away from the bombin’ and keep on with ‘er music — well, that’s just lovely.’
Mr Dupont smiles. ‘You’ll have to come down to my little cottage and see how April’s getting on. It’s not much, but at least it’s away from London.’ He pulls out his watch and glances at it. ‘Well, I was planning that we’d catch the twelve o’clock train —.’
‘Oh yes — you get on your way.’ The woman turns to her daughter and cautions her, ‘An’ you be a good girl April! There’s lots of kids would give a lot for the chance Mr Dupont’s givin’ to you!’ She speaks to Mr Dupont again, intending that her daughter should hear. ‘An’ you make sure she don’t give you no trouble, Mr Dupont! If she starts playin’ up, you put a stick acrost ‘er backside!’
‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll be no trouble at all,’ says Mr Dupont, ‘will you April?’
‘No — no, Mr Dupont!’
‘Well, you just see you ain’t!’ says April’s mum. She takes leave of them, having kissed her daughter on the cheek and extracted a promise that her little girl will write regularly.
Mr Dupont locks the piano. The cane he puts into one of April’s suitcases. He has to flex it into a curve to get it in.
‘Well, come on then April. We don’t want to miss the train, do we?’
‘No, Mr Dupont,’ says April unenthusiastically. She hopes fervently that something will happen so that they do miss the train. Perhaps the station will get bombed between now and twelve o’clock.
Mr Dupont leads the way to the front door, burdened with cases. He hopes fervently that April’s mum and dad will get bombed between now and April’s eighteenth birthday! After all, who else would there be to look after the girl, except him?