Chords that Bind Ch. 09: Fugue

"We had to approach her like the other scumbags." Abraham explained, "They wouldn't have let us have her otherwise. Of course she doesn't think she's safe here." Clara, tilted Abe's lips towards her own and kissed him.

"But she is, because of you two."

***

Cecilia thought she was back in her cell. Master was waking her up with the piano again. But when she opened her eyes, she saw she was still in the light colored room, wrapped snuggly in layers of blankets. She was hearing the music. It wasn't just in her head. Faint but still distinct, Cecilia knew she'd heard it before: It was the long controlled piece. The one that accompanied the flogging and paddling Master had given her, it was orderly and meditative. The flurry of notes was impressive. Impulsively, Cecilia squeezed her legs together.

No. She knew it! They were still torturing her. She looked around the room. The air vent! The piano was being piped into her room from the air vent. She felt arousal burn through her aches. They were picking up where Master left off, and she was helpless to stop them.

James had started his practice with the Goldberg Variations. It was the perfect warm up piece. The pattern and melodic syncopation were meditative to him, allowing him to fully sink into the rest of the music he played.

He was about halfway through the variations when Clara entered with a plate of toast and cup of tea. James was never able to get properly upset when she interrupted him like this. Sure, he was practicing and usually both Clara and Abe knew to leave him be, but he'd started practicing early enough that it was breakfast time now. Wordlessly, Clara set the plate and saucer down next to the piano and exited, her quick appearance serving to remind him he wasn't alone, and that people in the house cared about him.

Cecilia needed the music to stop. She couldn't handle what it was doing to her, and couldn't comprehend that as distressed as her body clearly was, it was still capable of betraying her this way. She slumped back onto her pillows and shed more tears. This music was devastating too. Especially when it slowed down and had more feeling. Some parts were melancholy, and others vibrantly alive. She rode the waves of the music, helpless to ignore the overtures her body was making.

Clara's entrance was welcome. She seemed to hear the music too. "Oh no! Did James wake you up with that? How early did he start?" Cecilia was mildly relieved to know it wasn't just playing in her head, that she hadn't gone quite that mad yet... but she shook her head. "Not sure" she croaked out. Clara saw the tears. "Is it bothering you? Do you need something?"

Yes. But she didn't know what. When Cecilia didn't answer, Clara figured that tea was the best cure for everything, and poured the wounded girl a steaming cup.

***

The next week and a half took a pattern of sleeping when the piano ceased, and waking when it started again. Cecilia, agitated by the music, was unable to tune it out. There was one piece that played that she had never heard before, and she liked it the best because it didn't trigger an emotional response from her, or force her to remember her captivity.

Clara had kept her well rested and off her feet. Cecilia's voice was nearly back now, and it didn't hurt to talk, but she didn't know what to say. She hadn't seen the other two men since the morning she woke up, and the whole stagnant situation was strange to her. She wouldn't be healing forever. Cecilia figured that when she was better they would start making demands of her.

A doctor had come to see her. He wrapped her ribs back up tightly, and seemed pleased with the progress her knitting bones had made. It had been unbelievably painful when he took a look at her back though. The gashes in her back objected to his prodding. The doctor rubbed a nasty smelling ointment that stung horribly, but he claimed it would help alleviate scarring and infection. He bandaged them back up, and checked her eyes, making sure there was no further head trauma. He said that the worst of her concussion was behind her, and assured her she'd be as good as new soon. His smile was tight though, and Cecilia didn't speak to him at all, afraid of what he would say to the two men.

One morning, a few days later, after Cecilia had awoken to the sound of the repetitive piano, Clara came in looking positively buoyant.

"Dr. Patel said you would be able to get out of bed today! Come with me! I've got loads of things to do, but you can help me."

Cecilia didn't see this as a choice. She pulled herself out of bed and on shaky legs, stood to see that Clara was much taller, willowy even. Cecilia was still wearing the overlarge Oxford sweatshirt. "Oh no, that won't do. I'm sorry. Here... Take a shower, over here" Clara indicated the bathroom, "and I'll see if I've got anything that fits you."

Cecilia was too used to being naked to feel ashamed about this conversation now. She shrugged the big sweatshirt off and went to take the longest hot shower of her life. When she stepped out wrapped in a towel, Clara was rummaging through some drawers. "I'm afraid I'm a bit taller than you... oh! This might work!" She had some comfy, cropped sweats and tossed them onto the bed without looking. She then pulled a thick jumper out of another drawer. "There. Abraham's jumpers always make me feel better. Cecilia dropped the towel without a word. Clara caught sight of the bandages that were peeling off her back from the steam in the shower. "Oh! Here, let me..." Cecilia didn't want Clara to touch her, but was afraid that if she didn't cooperate Clara would bring to two men back with her.

Clara bit back a gasp. Cecilia's back had been healing, but she had been so viciously whipped. None of the deep cuts had opened though, so she removed the rest of the bandages, and decided to let the cuts get some air. Thankfully the cloth bandages binding Cecilia's ribs and midsection hadn't come undone.

"I'm sorry. I know they hurt you." Cecilia bit her lip, not knowing what to say. Clara honestly believed herself to be helping her, but Cecilia bristled at the words. Clara didn't know. She couldn't be sorry for something that she didn't understand.

Cecilia pulled the clothes over her naked body, enjoying the softness against her bare, sensitive skin. The pants were cropped on Clara maybe, but on Cecilia, they were still too long, Cecilia's heels were treading on the hem as she followed Clara along the hall and downstairs.

There was large butcher block island dominating a working kitchen with a huge gas range, two ovens and lots of well-loved pots and pans that hung from the ceiling. Cecilia thought this kitchen was the closest to a restaurant kitchen that she'd seen in a house.

"I was planning on baking a bit today." Clara was explaining, "Do you like to cook?"

Cecilia nodded her head slowly, not daring to be objectionable while she was unsure of Clara's intent. "Right then!" Clara was enthused with just this tiny response. "Put on some tea and I'll get the stuff together. I was planning on making some scones for tomorrow. Maybe we can make some pasta for dinner tonight?"

Cecilia nodded. The doctor had told them she was better. At least it was only domestic duties they were demanding of her. "Do you like music?"

What a loaded question. Clara took Cecilia's pause for an answer. "Well, how about something a bit less stuffy? James has been practising the piano nonstop, and it's beautiful, really, but sometimes it makes me want to go slumming." Clara was pulling out a purple iPod. "Here! James can't get mad at this one." She docked the iPod into the countertop speaker setup. Abbey Road started playing as Clara started spreading flour across the countertop, dancing to the music obviously comfortable in her body and easing some of Cecilia's nerves.

After spending the day kneading bread, simmering sauce, and then cooking pasta, Cecilia had lightened up towards Clara. Clara was difficult to dislike, even though she was helping the men who captured her. She had an infectious laugh and was so eager to please, that Cecilia found herself giving more than one-word answers to her questions. Hearing the Beatles, and then Sting, a bit of Adele, and then Bob Marley had also helped Cecilia relax. They were familiar and not nearly as laden with double meaning for her.

Sitting down for dinner with the three of them had been difficult though. Clara ran into the big burly man's arms when he returned from work, and began effusively telling him about their day, and about the dinner they prepared. When the blonde man came into the kitchen from upstairs wearing track pants and a jumper, Cecilia's eyes immediately found the floor. Clara had told her their names before, and anxious knots twisted her stomach. She saw how Clara was with the stocky Abraham and wondered if James would demand the same affection from her.

They all enjoyed their dinner, but conversation was strained and carried mostly by Clara and Abraham. James was looking surly. He wolfed down his food as politely as he could, while still making every effort not to stay in the same room as them. No one pressured Cecilia to talk. She figured they were tired of her crying and didn't want to unleash another deluge of tears.

Cecilia was tired though. She looked to Clara and asked, "Can I go to bed, please?" Clara was startled by the question. "Oh! Yes, of course, you're probably tired, I should have thought of that sooner. Go on and get some rest."

Clara was happy with the progress Cecilia had made today. She was going to keep trying until Cecilia felt comfortable. She was still recovering physically after all. James, however, was pulling the recluse game. Shutting himself off from everyone around him was James' way of trying to protect himself, and it usually took some berating from Abraham and manipulations from Clara to snap him out of his depression. It was going to have to wait though. Clara was most concerned for Cecilia, and was going to exert her efforts on the poor girl who hadn't yet understood that she had been rescued. To aid in the mission, Clara made a quick run of some London shops and brought back clothes that would fit Cecilia, knowing that she wasn't comfortable in her own skin, let alone the baggy clothes she was borrowing from their wardrobes.

The following days progressed with a soothing regularity. Clara insisted Cecilia accompany her with all sorts of domestic duties; including a few harrowing trips to the markets and grocery stores. Cecilia didn't have it in her to protest, but she didn't want to leave the townhouse. London was bustling and chaotic and after her long seclusion and training sessions with Master, she wasn't prepared to see the rest of the world continuing as if nothing had happened. Everything was foreign to her, and to Cecilia, life, normalcy, regularity had ended when she woke in her white cell. To see that the rest of the world had continued without skipping a beat was tragic. She was the only thing that had changed, and no one could see where the alterations had taken place.

Clara noticed how introverted Cecilia became when they went about town, and decided not to press the matter any further. However, Clara was a ballerina with the Royal Ballet, and the season was readying to begin, which meant she would have to attend class and rehearsal daily.

When Clara invited Cecilia to come along with her to watch, she thought she had been offering a bit of escapism and companionship, but the look on Cecilia's face said that it would be more trying than fun. Clara asked Cecilia to join her in her many cross training classes (she had to attend Pilates and yoga to ensure she didn't injure herself during the course of the season's demanding rehearsals.) Cecilia shook her head and withdrew inside her mind. Clara didn't like leaving Cecilia alone now, after so few weeks adjusting to life away from the cruelty she had endured.

Finally, the first day of rehearsals had come, and Clara had to leave Cecilia alone. Over the course of the last few weeks, Cecilia had been relieved that she was being used only as a domestic servant of sorts to help Clara. Clara herself had been as friendly and comforting as one could expect of a fellow prisoner, for that's what Cecilia believed. She didn't think for a minute that Clara was willingly so subservient and docile to the two men in the house, she had to have been brain washed, otherwise how could they trust her not to escape? Why hadn't she escaped? Without Clara to direct her day, Cecilia was afraid to leave her room. Then she was afraid that she was somehow neglecting some of the household duties.

She wandered quietly downstairs, but didn't see anything that needed doing. The house was very orderly. She and Clara had prepared food for the week yesterday, so there was no need to prepare anything for dinner.

Cecilia padded up the stairs to her room. Even though Clara had bought her some clothes that fit her better, Cecilia was still favoring the large Oxford sweatshirt she had woken up in. Once ensconced in her room Cecilia hugged her knees to her chest and started rocking back and forth. She was paralyzed with fear. Only this time, she was most afraid of herself. Without Clara there to watch over her, Cecilia was free to escape. Abraham went to some sort of work during the day, and she had only caught glimpses of James at meals. Her back was healing nicely, and her ribs were no longer sore to the touch. There was nothing keeping her there, no surveillance team, no locked doors. Only her fear.

There was nothing, nowhere, and no one to whom Cecilia could escape. She didn't have funds or friends to help her. She was in a strange country, and she was certain that she would fail to be successful and bring down more misery upon herself.

She was cursing her cowardice. The last trace of defiance had been whipped out of her the day she laid eyes on her new owner. She cried again, relieved she didn't have to hide them from Clara, who had been trying so hard, in her own way, to help.

***

James knew he should probably check on Cecilia. Clara was entitled to have her dancing career, but James had largely been depending on Clara to watch over Cecilia. Cecilia wasn't Clara's responsibility however: that was squarely on James' shoulders. He didn't know what he was supposed to say or do, so he put it off and decided to tackle the Pathetique...

God! Beethoven was a genius! As James' fingers lashed at the piano keys in the second half of the first movement, he immersed his mind in the complexities of the music, and relished freeing his thoughts from Cecilia, who distracted him with her presence. She was so quiet and reserved, so obviously submissive in her manners and attitude that he had to constantly remind himself that it was learned behavior, acquired as a means of survival, while she was being tortured. But when he left his mind unguarded, he found himself fantasizing about taking the girl's mouth and having her worship his cock on her knees...

And that was why he couldn't go and see how she was doing, or speak to her. He was disgusted with himself. Beethoven understood though; what was the Pathetique but an expression of anger and self-loathing? It was a musical incarnation of understanding and pity at oneself, the feeling of the unrequited. James appreciated the chance to indulge this feeling and transmute it; after all, this was why he was still playing these centuries-old masterpieces. The bold chords and dramatic space around the movements suited his dark mood perfectly, and he allowed himself to surrender to the greatness written across the sheet music.

Cecilia was hearing music coming through the air vent again. It was the one piano piece that she liked best. It didn't hold the shadows of her long training with Master. She hadn't heard it before waking up in this house. It suited her mood perfectly. She knew better than to be curious, but she wanted to know what it really sounded like.

She tip-toed up the stairs, and let her ears guide her up another flight of steps. The stairs opened to an open attic space. Cecilia stayed on the steps, unwilling to reveal her presence, wanting only to listen like some sort of musical voyeur. The piece that her new owner was playing was almost scary. It was an emotionally wrought piece that ignored how much tension it asked the listener to hold. When it finally released, Cecilia was certain that her body would tear to pieces, or the piano would snap it's strings, but instead the entire room took a huge breath, relieved to have the tension finally abate.

After hearing him play the piece a second time, Cecilia resolved to withdraw down the steps and leave before she was discovered. That was until she heard a familiar titling theme sing out from the piano. She knew this one too, and couldn't make herself move.

James moved to the Goldberg variations, happy to have found a temporary catharsis in the Beethoven sonata. The baroque piece was soothing after the fury of the romantic, and closing his eyes, he reveled and enjoyed the meditative quality Bach infused into the music.

In her hiding place Cecilia felt her pulse quicken, out of time with the piano. Her nipples pebbled and she felt her core tingle. She had been trained to arousal at the sound of this music. She was suddenly warm and claustrophobic in her hiding place on the steps. Her body was begging for attention and Cecilia hugged herself under the sweatshirt, enjoying the play of warm skin against skin. Her nipples throbbed, and Cecilia knew she was in over her head. She was painfully aroused, only this time, there was no one to stop her from achieving orgasm. As quickly as she dared, she went down the two flights of stairs and ran to her room.

She could hear the faint fugues and variations through the air vent, but her blood pumping in her ears was also spurring on her desire. She was appalled at her body, but decided she would take this opportunity to take back control of her senses. She locked the door, and stripping off everything, wiggled under the covers, enjoying the feeling of softness against her agitated skin.

Her body was so obedient to the music. Finally, she was able to wrest at least this much control back from her captors. Using her hands she scraped the back of her nails down her torso, skipping over her bandaged ribs. She was already wet, and sweat broke out all along her body. She didn't understand how her body was so easily surrendering, but didn't care. There was nothing to stop her this time. Her clit was already throbbing and begging for attention. She used her middle finger to draw circles on her clit, far more knowledgeable of her body and its wants than she had been before her captivity.

She closed her eyes and exhaled relief. The piano from the attic studio was piping music into her room through the air vent and already she felt the orgasm building. She hadn't come since the day Master broke her; the day she admitted her submission, her slavery. After the drought, her body was clamouring for orgasm. The piano kept her on edge, and Cecilia aggressively pumped her hips, and worked her clit, feeling her orgasm continue to build. It was like the tension she had heard in the piece when she had spied on James. The dark, dramatic strain she had secretly absorbed as James played to his audience of one, was now building endlessly in her center, and Cecilia whimpered and moaned, ready, so ready to fall, or float, or shatter, so long as she could feel pleasure this one time.

James finished the Goldberg Variations and moved onto a Rachmaninoff piano sonata, wishing, as he always did when playing these pieces, that his hands were bigger, and could reach the chords easier, but he managed it all the same, appreciating the romantic Russian's style and attitude towards music.