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Friday, 24 August 2018

Summer School

Story from Blushes Uniform Girls 16
You’re even quieter than usual, Wendy — what’s the matter?’ Sandra emerged from the bathroom in a waft of bath-oil and glanced critically towards her room-mate, sprawled disconsolately on her bed.
‘I screwed up in rehearsal this afternoon, and now I’ve got to see the Maestro this evening for a telling off,’ Wendy admitted reluctantly, averting her eyes from Sandra’s blissfully unselfconscious nakedness. Even after sharing a room with her for a week, she just couldn’t get used to the other girl’s casual attitudes to such things.
The two young musicians provided an interesting illustration of contrast. Both articulate and attractive, Sandra was the epitome of the dark, Latin beauty, while Wendy displayed the glorious translucence of skin and lithe limbs of the true blonde. Sandra smouldered, while Wendy glowed, nineteen and absolutely delectable.
Making no attempt to cover her nakedness. Sandra perched herself at the dressing table mirror and began to make up her face. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about the Maestro. I was wondering how long the old ram would take to get round to you.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Wendy vehemently.
‘Come off it,’ replied her friend, studying her eyelashes critically as she spoke. ‘Everyone in the business knows what he’s like, for Chrissake! He’s like all the rest of them, only more so. They call him the poor man’s Stokowski, and we all know what Stokie was like!’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Wendy asserted firmly. ‘I didn’t believe it last week, and I don’t believe it now. He’s a great artist, and a great teacher, and he’s above such things.’
‘If he gets above you, you might change your views!’
‘Sandra, really!’
‘Yes, really,’ insisted Sandra, wondering not for the first time if Wendy could really be so completely naive as she appeared. ‘What’s more,’ she went on, ‘from what Mary told me he’s more than a bit on the kinky side.’
‘The blonde cellist with the boobs and the fishnet stockings. I bet you can’t guess why she was playing standing up last week.’
‘I thought it was some sort of experimental technique she was trying.’
‘It was experimental, alright. She screwed up in rehearsal too, and she had the evening interview bit. The old sod spanked her so hard she couldn’t sit down for two days!’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘Ask her.’
‘Well he won’t spank me! Or do anything else out of place, come to that.’
Sandra turned towards her friend, her breasts jiggling indignantly. ‘Wendy, do yourself a favour and grow up. What’s the most important thing in your whole life.’
‘My career, of course’
‘Your career. of course. Which is why you’re here, at the most prestigious international summer school there is. We know it, and the good old Maestro knows it too. And he’s still got more influence with conductors and agencies than anyone else, even if he doesn’t do much actual performing any more. He doesn’t have to. He saves his performing for his students, the pretty ones, because he knows we need his recommendation. So he’s got us, hasn’t he? By the time our two months here are over, he’ll have had every one of us. How d’you think that little redhead number who was here last year got to the top so fast? She plays the fiddle like a road-mender, but I gather she’s great on the horn. You’d better learn, Wendy, before it’s too late.’
Before middle age, Maestro Moroni had achieved all that was worth achieving in the world of classical music. With an imposing physique to match his musical abilities, he was acknowledged in his twenties as one of the greatest piano virtuosi of his generation, in his thirties as an equally gifted orchestral conductor. By the time he was forty, he had tasted all the best that was on offer in the world that recognises the existence of only the very best. He had taken his fill of all the trappings of success — fast cars, beautiful women, a personal entourage to gratify his every whim. At the age of fifty had come the first heart attack, and the stern warning from a platoon of doctors that if he did not slow down the next could prove fatal.
The Maestro loved the success, the adulation, the sheer excitement of it all — but he loved life itself even more, and so he abandoned the peripatetic existence of the international musician, becoming instead the proprietor and sole arbiter of the Moroni Music School, an institution which, because of the reputation of its owner, became overnight the most prestigious establishment of its kind in the world.
For five years now he had seen them come and go, the young hopefuls, envying them their youth and beauty. 0ccasionally there had been a rare spark of performing genius, and when he encountered that, he gave his all. For the rest, they were an average crop, year on year. Gradually he found himself becoming cynical about the whole business until now, after five years away from the limelight, he was beginning to see that there were other things to life.
His sexual drive continued unabated, and for that reason, with very rare exceptions, he took only girl pupils. They were intent on the furtherance of their pathetic little careers by whatever means they thought expedient; he was delighted to become one of the means. He used them, loved them, worshipped their firm young bodies for a time, and ultimately despised them. There was no true excitement or challenge in any of it: it was a shadow of living. The one diversion which could still genuinely arouse his jaded sexual palate was the corruption of innocence, and in Wendy he had recognised at once one of life’s true innocents.
Her performing talent was unexceptional, but her blonde beauty could be her passport to the international success she craved — if he saw fit to put the weight of his influence behind her. And now, after a week of gleeful anticipation, she was knocking on the door, entering timorously, approaching him with a nervous little smile on her face, her body moving with the unconscious effortless grace of a healthy young animal.
‘Wendy, my child, we have much to discuss,’ the Maestro began effusively, raising his impressive frame from his seat at the concert grand that dominated the room.
‘I don’t know what got into me today, Maestro.’
The girl was apologetic, uncertain — perfection!
‘Lack of concentration, child, that is what got into you. And if you are to succeed, we must overcome that failing.’
‘And I, the Maestro, can achieve this for you. But you must trust me, place yourself in my hands.’
‘Whatever you say. Maestro.’
‘It is all a question, you see, of discipline. We have to take that fluffy little female mind and create from it a finely-tuned instrument. We can only achieve this by the application of discipline. Do you understand, Wendy?’
I… I think so, Maestro,’ replied the girl, understanding not at all, and shifting embarrassedly from one foot to the other in a way that unconsciously enhanced every bounteous curve of her body. Wendy recalled her earlier discussion with the realistic Sandra, uncomfortably aware of the Maestro’s predatory eyes on her body. She felt naked, vulnerable, exposed. What Sandra had been telling her was no longer so ridiculous. The look in his eye owed more to the old Adam than to musical professionalism.
‘Discipline,’ the Maestro pursued, ‘can take a variety of forms, but I think in your case we can have recourse to what are known as traditional methods. Come here, Wendy!’
His tone suddenly commanding, he beckoned her towards him, and she found herself complying, mesmerised by his authority.
For his part, the Maestro was becoming impatient with this preamble. He just had to see that firm young body displayed to proper advantage in one of his favourite punishment uniforms. The girl was besotted by the influence he could have on her career. Besides, she was young, and eager — in short, she would comply!
He gestured impatiently towards a screen in the corner of the room. ‘Go behind the screen, Wendy. There you will find garb suitable for the course of treatment I have decided will help your career.’
Could this really be happening to her, Wendy wondered wildly as she obeyed and found what was waiting for her, laid out neatly on a chair behind the screen. A white shirtwaister, complete with black dicky bow, white stockings, suspender belt and knickers, black lace gloves and high-heeled shoes — and nothing else!!
She would be virtually naked!!
‘Hurry up. Wendy, I haven’t got all night!’ came his voice from the other side of the screen, and what was a girl to do when she wanted to be an international concert pianist and needed the help of an influential teacher with a penchant for discipline.
Did she want to be humiliated by this ludicrous goat? No!
Did she want to be spanked by this kinky old man?? No!!
Did she want to be famous??? Yes!!!
Come on girl, just think of your career, she told herself firmly, removing her sensible black dress and beginning to don the bizarre selection of partial clothing that was to be her entire protection.
And as she changed her clothes and her persona, the firm pull of the suspender straps against her proud thighs drew an echo from deep within her loins, where thought or feeling had rarely penetrated before except in a most abstract way — and suddenly she was proud of the lush uprising flesh of her body! The feel of these garments was right! She could deal with this situation with her youth and confidence.
Her legs felt newly strong yet strangely weak. The tight pull of the brief knickers was pouring strength and confidence into that part of her that scarcely yet had independent life. She knew she had a good body, for men looked at her in unmistakeable ways, made impossible suggestions, and she sensed that there would be a time when she would wish to explore the full magic of her sexuality. Perhaps that time was not yet. But perhaps she could make a beginning by taking pleasure from the power she felt as she emerged from behind the screen and saw the Maestro’s eyes fasten greedily on the proud thrust of her breasts beneath their vestigial covering.
‘I’m… no… not sure about this,’ she murmured, but she was consciously beginning to pose as she spoke, thrust of breast and flare of thigh, feeling a shiver of apprehension mingled with delight as her female powers stirred within her.
‘Over to the stool!’ The Maestro’s voice was firm, but there was a suspicion of the un-Maestro-like excitement in his tone.’
‘D… do you like me like this?’
‘Liking does not come into it,’ lied the Maestro valiantly, his palms itching to make contact with the delicious young body being erotically displayed for him and him alone. The mixture of shrinking violet and brazen hussy peeping out of her eyes was more than he could have hoped for — she was coming to life! Perhaps little Wendy was destined to do unexpectedly well on the international concert circuit!
‘You will sit, and we will see if your concentration has improved!’
Wendy seated herself nervously at the piano, closing her mind firmly to the fact that the Maestro could see all her female treasures from his chair beside her. No man had ever seen her so exposed — she was open to him — defenceless. She was also having apprehensive thoughts about the long whippy cane he was brandishing inches from her quaking body. Could he really mean to complete her humiliation with that implement?
‘Play, child!’
And his hand was on her thigh, kneading and probing. Afterwards, she could never remember what it was that he made her play. She made a complete mess of it, of course — even worse than she had done that afternoon, with all her clothes on.
The Maestro signalled the end of that phase of her course of discipline with an angry fist on the bass notes of the piano that made the girl start with fright.
‘Lack of concentration, Wendy!’
‘I… I…!!’
‘You will kneel on the stool, and I will teach you the rudiments of discipline. Only thus will you learn the art of concentration!’
So it really was going to happen, thought Wendy dismally. The Maestro had already humiliated her by making her expose herself to him. Now he really was going to spank her, like a baby, across the piano that was god and tyrant to them both. And she was going to let him do it, because of course Sandra was quite right, and there was nothing else she could do, if she wanted a future in music.
‘Never forget, Wendy, that it is good for the artist to be humiliated for the sake of his or her art!’ intoned the Maestro, and now at last it was time, and his hands were touching the ineffably sweet woman-flesh of her young untried body.
The Maestro regarded himself as a connoisseur of the female form, yet even he was agreeably surprised by the secrets of this girl’s body now revealed to his delighted gaze for the first time. She seemed to have been assembled by a cunning force of nature with a penchant for the sweep and interplay of one curve within and into another — and she was entirely at his whim.
He began her course of discipline with a few lusty strokes of his hand to the upturned exquisite curves of her bottom, then found himself unable to resist the titillation of the brief covering of her panties and pulled them to her knees as she knelt on the stool, baring her inmost secrets to his delighted gaze.
Wendy squealed and whimpered as he spanked her, but there was no real force behind the blows. The girl thought she was being disciplined. The Maestro knew she was being enjoyed, humiliated, subjugated. The real tests lay in the future, by which time she would have become his creature. For he was becoming convinced that this blonde innocent was the pick of the crop of this year’s young hopefuls. She was going to be his best pupil! For now, the tantalising lift of her breasts peeping coyly from beneath the abbreviated shirtwaister defeated him, and he was overwhelmed with the need to see them naked in their glory.
‘You will stand, Wendy, and we will talk,’ he commanded. The girl lurched to her feet, whimpering quietly as he positioned her and gazed at the translucent glow of pliant flesh.
She felt his hands pushing at the shirtwaister, baring her swelling treasures, heard the swift intake of his breath as he saw the tumescence of her nipples, felt a moment of lurching nausea that was engulfed in pride at the thought that it was her body — hers!! — that was enthralling this man, one of the giants of the profession.
‘They are beautiful, child, but they are the seat of much female vanity, and vanity can lead only to lack of concentration.’ His voice was inexorable, his hands everywhere, exploring the intimacies of her upper thighs, leaving no place of privacy of her body. He was taking possession of her, making her his vassal.
‘I wish to be as you would wish me to be, Maestro!’
‘And so you shall!’
And now she was devoured!
The Maestro was prey to confused emotions, beside himself with both lust and pity for this defenceless naive youngster who would let him use her however he wished in furtherance of her pathetic little career.
It was a time for firmness! ‘The cane, I think, to inculcate a proper sense of obedience!’
He was strong, an inexorable force, and her whole body was pivoted this way and that, no tiniest shred of modesty or unbared flesh was left to her, and finally she heard the sound she had still not quite believed would enter her experience. A vicious swish in the key of subservience, then a sudden unimaginable sear of pain across her tautened buttocks. His strong hand held her firm: she was his to defile and discipline.
‘The cane will be your teacher, as I am your teacher!’
Again the swish, the instant of shocked stillness of stunned tissue, then the howl of surprised, affronted dignity was wrested from her pretty untrammelled lips, and she felt her body beginning to reach and arch for the caress of her newest teacher even as her conditioned reflexes squirmed protest.
‘P… please!!!’
‘The cane is your teacher! I am your teacher! Together we will make you the newest sensation of the international circuit, and you will owe your success to my cane — to our cane!’
‘To… our cane…!’
Sprawled helpless and gasping across the massive piano, her body entirely submissive to the Maestro’s control, Wendy began to realise the wisdom of Sandra’s advice. Discomfort, pain, humiliation — they could be seen as a small enough price to pay for the ultimate goal of international stardom that the Maestro could provide.
A strange almost mystical pleasure tingled through her spread-eagled limbs as she submitted to the cane, to the Maestro’s wishes, her body quivering on its sacrificial slab. The great piano. She was suffering for her art. She was suffering gladly, and she would succeed!
The Maestro would show her how!!

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