Lessons from My Piano Teacher

This is a slow burn M/f consensual spanking-centric romance story. Please let me know your thoughts.

Whenever we started on a new song Steven would play first. It was a treat to watch his beautiful hands over the keys. I found myself enamoured with his perfectly trimmed nails adorning his long, thin fingers. Never did he miss a note, or stumble over a sharp or flat.

My piano teacher was like a human metronome, precise in all things, including his genteel appearance. Ties were worn at every lesson, and in the winter like now, tucked neatly behind a sweater. He was fastidious in general. Like how he always called me Penelope, with all four syllables, and never Penny or Pen like my friends. It endeared him to me.

I wished I could be nearly as meticulous. As he demonstrated the piece, I became keenly aware of the pile of clean laundry on the sofa behind us, waiting to be folded and put away. It had been waiting since last week. What was the expiration date on clean laundry, anyway?

"I think you can do that piece from memory, given six weeks of practice. What do you think?"

I realized I hadn't been paying attention again. It was a frequent problem. I looked up at my dapper teacher. It was no easier to pay attention while looking into those bright, intelligent eyes. "Um, yes, I think," I stammered. "What? Six pieces?"

"Six weeks for one piece. Are you alright, Penelope?"

Better than that, and also a mess. I had always been a mess of a woman, but now it was far worse. His weekly presence here in my home turned me just about inside out. My crush was painfully obvious, and it was born not only from Steven's appearance, but also from one of the more embarrassing moments I've had in my life.

It was two months ago, right after he carefully lifted my tilted wrists up for about the hundredth time that lesson. I had an awful habit of lazily dropping my wrists back at an angle instead of holding them straight and parallel to the keys. On that fateful day, Steven had tried to assuage my frustration by commenting that he used to make that same mistake his first year studying piano in university. "My professor had this wooden ruler," he said. "And she'd smack me with it until I learned to keep my wrists straight."

"Your professor gave you spankings?" I had asked, astounded, and incredibly turned on. Was that one of the tools he'd use to teach his own students? The idea of me over Steven's lap, those beautiful hands holding a ruler to warm my bare bottom, it sent a shiver through me.

His cheeks had flushed a light pink that day for the first time I'd ever seen. "Just against the underside of my wrists whenever I dropped them back," he'd said. "I quickly learned to stop. But, this is embarrassing, I- I'm so sorry for accidentally sending the conversation in that direction."

"Don't be," I had insisted. "I'm the one who completely misunderstood! What a ridiculous thought, anyway. A piano teacher spanking his student."

I was appropriately mortified about how I'd said his student even though he'd said his professor was female. We both knew what that implied.

Steven had coughed out his, "Yes," and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. I really wondered if I was the only one who wanted to suddenly change course in our program. Make it much more intensive.

Now, two months later, my mind was back to the thought of it. The idea of him taking out a wooden ruler - and, at this point, I'd take it on the wrists like he once did. I really would, just to feel that quick, stinging burst of his power over me. To know he was correcting me and would do it again and again if I needed it.

What did he ask me? If I was okay? Not losing my mind or anything? Well, mostly.

"I'm fine, yeah," I said. "Just got distracted. I'll try it. Can you play it again for me, please?"

He did. It was Chopin, who I always found the most romantic and emotional of the great classical composers. I had a fleeting hope that this song choice was my teacher's way of getting across his own feelings. It was a sweet melody that would often peak into intense bursts of chords. Steven played it with such sensual grace that I, for a moment, became jealous of my own upright piano.

I'd been flirting here and there, and he'd eventually joined me. I liked to tell him things like how his tie brought out his eyes. Eventually he ventured beyond his pure professionalism and complimented my smile, and then the next week my choice in outfit. I'd dressed in a pleated skirt that rested just above the knees that I now realize gave off a schoolgirl vibe. I began to buy and wear more pleated skirts just for him after that. I'm sure he caught on.

There were also signs of his own predilections, of course. I once played an etude so well that he'd put both hands on my shoulders and told me I must have been practicing hard, like a very good girl. I was twenty-seven and he was only a few years older and yet he called me girl. I loved it and sighed out a breathy laugh.

I'd felt sure then that I was right about my suspicions. The word spanking made him flustered because it aroused him. And seeing his guidance and gentle control of me, I could tell now that he wanted to be the one doing the spanking. Exactly as I'd hoped.

It was my turn to sit at the piano now, and he sat beside me, watching. I tried a few bars of the Chopin piece, and let my hands slip into the lazy, slouched position, reverting to old habits. Steven was quick to correct me, as he always had been. He was a meticulous sort of person. His warm fingers gently pushed upwards against my wrists. Any physical contact with him at all made my heart flutter, as it did now.

"I thought you'd gotten out of that habit," he said.

"Maybe when I'm nervous..."

"Why are you nervous, Penelope? Are you sure you're alright?"

I don't know why it took me this long, nearly half a year, to figure this out. He couldn't make the first move as my piano teacher. Even though we were both grown adults, Steven was too conscientious and respectable. He'd never.

But I was very shy myself, so today's lesson ended as they always did - rife with unfulfilled longing. I hadn't fallen this hard for someone since I was a teenager. That evening around six, as per usual, I watched him get into his car and head off. I pressed head miserably against my chilly living room window.

It was Thursday again, my favourite day. Steven would come, so I'd worn his favourite style of pleated skirt, just above the knee. That wasn't all. Today I finally found the courage to do something I'd wanted to do for ages. I had placed a wooden ruler just on the ledge of the piano, overtop a stack of sheet music. It couldn't be missed, a streak of straight wood, diagonal over a sea of white.

I was too shy to point it out. It was enough that I'd put it there at all. But he noticed it, staying jovial and breezy at first. "Is this for me, Penelope?" he teased.

After far too many afternoons of watching him get into his car and drive away, I must have just about lost my mind. I actually said "yes" without a hint of wit or irony.

I could see his mind working behind his eyes, doing math. He was almost certainly adding up every single time I'd flirted over the past six months, combined with all his well received compliments. Then he could multiply that total with the lingering tension around that one awkward moment about the concept of a piano teacher spanking his student. What he decided to do was take the ruler into his hands and check its rigidity, attempting to bend the inflexible wood.

"Is this what your professor used to teach you to stop dropping your wrists?" I asked.

"More or less. It really stings though. Are you actually sure?"

I hoped he couldn't tell how fast my pulse raced. "I'm sure." For good measure, I added in a whispered, "Please."

There was no mistaking that kind of consent. Steven sat beside me and held the ruler against his leg. I played my warmup scales, and now my most submissive urges suddenly wanted his praise. What was wrong with me? I kept my wrists up and steady, perfect form. When I was done, he rewarded me with a very direct, "Good girl." That was on purpose, I knew it.

A shy grin lit up my face long before I realized it, and I heard his soft chuckle. He asked me to get out the Chopin piece, and told me to show him what I've practiced so far. Almost right away he corrected my sloppy fingering, penciling in his suggestions above the notes.

This time I was so focused on reworking my fingering that I dropped my wrists quite naturally. The crack of the unforgiving wood against my skin startled me into a sharp gasp. I sat there for three long, deep breaths, not playing a single note. My wrists both smarted as a deeper feeling washed through me. I wanted more of that, his firm hand, his control over me.

"Too hard?" he checked, always the gentleman.

I wondered if he could see the pure longing in my eyes as they met his. "No," I told him. It was perfect, in fact. Serious and real, not some impotent joking tap. "Thank you for correcting me."

The next two times I earned the ruler were just as hard as the first. I wondered if the undersides of my wrists were pink, and turned them over to look. The large, stinging stripes were what I hoped I could keep of him after he'd leave at six.

Steven rubbed a careful thumb over the marks, and checked again that I was truly alright with this.

"Please," I agreed.

The old-fashioned discipline worked on me too well. After I'd granted this permission, I kept my proper posture and didn't earn any further smacks over the next twenty lonely minutes. The slight burn had faded now and I needed it again. When I struck a sour note, as I often did for the new piece, I suddenly pulled my hands off the keys and presented my wrists to him, upturned for chastisement.

Steven only hesitated a moment before he turned them both pink again with a sound spank that reached over both wrists at once. I sighed hard instead of squealing, my desire on full display. He was no better, his forehead beading a bit with perspiration. Then he crossed his legs.

I was afraid to push my good fortune in finding a man like this, a dreamy looking and single one no less. For the rest of my attempt at the Chopin piece, I made all my little mistakes without demanding the immediate attention of his ruler.

"Good," he said. I must have not reacted as usual, as he corrected himself. "Good girl. But you did slip up your fingering three further times. You're falling into bad habits and I don't want it to stick."

I bowed my head, blushing. The moment was so intense now that it felt straight out of my dreams and fantasies. He was playing this game I'd practically begged him to play now, but without any discussion over the rules. So it wasn't even a game, but completely real. It was exciting and a little dangerous.

"Show me your wrists, Penelope."

I obediently offered the sensitive undersides of my wrists to him, presenting them for his correction. My trust in him was naive in its totality, but Steven proved himself worthy of it. He spanked them three times in a row - not too severely. However, the build of one after the other still made me flinch at the second and yelp from the sting of the third.

"Thank you, sir," I told him. It slipped out so naturally and quickly, the most earnest utterance of my feelings in this moment.

Steven accepted his new title without calling attention to it, and simply pat the top of my head. "Try again," he said.

He only needed to correct my dropping wrists once more before I managed to play the entire section we'd marked off without major error. It had never happened this easily before, as I didn't have as innate a talent for music as my teacher. His widened, awed eyes almost caused me shame over my past failures.

"Impressive," he said, turning the wooden ruler over in his fingertips. "This really works on you."

"Yes, sir," I told him.

He smiled slightly, gathering up his bag, stuffing papers back inside. "I just hope your poor wrists can take it when we work on the section with all those trills next week."

I watched the vibrant pink fade to a pale white again after he left. His absence caused me a pain I hadn't experienced since the days of my high school crushes. Like a hunger, gnawing in me. I wondered what he'd do now, and what he'd eat for dinner, and what channel he'd choose if he flicked on the television.

As the days passed, my head grew clearer. A terrible fear kept rising in me that I'd gone too far, and made him uncomfortable. He wouldn't return next week and he'd send another teacher in his stead. The worry mingled with the growing infatuation, and I was just about sick over it. I slept very little that whole week.

He was late the following Thursday. I was awash in anxiety, holding back the curtains to peer out the living room window. Just the snow, painting the street with spots. I helplessly checked the clock at one minute intervals. I'd crossed the line, just as I feared, or accidentally caused him to feel as though he did. Either way. I was queasy, mortified, and near tears. It was ten minutes past the hour, and Steven had never been late before.

I should have known it might turn out this way. He was always kind but very reserved. His private life was largely his own, other than brief mentions of a cat named Symphony. I was certain I'd ruined our relationship with my advances last week, and made our lessons as disheveled as myself.

The curtains fell the second I spotted his car in the distance. My nerves were so on edge that I felt my face prickling with heat when I answered the door.

"I apologize, Penelope. There was an accident on the highway."

"Are- are you alright?" I asked, and I meant about everything of course. Last week, and now, and whatever had been building between us since our first lesson six months prior.

"Well, yes, it wasn't my car."

"I mean... with..."

The power I offered him last week had remained, affording him even more confidence than usual in my presence. Steven lifted my chin with just one finger, so I could look up into his eyes. "With disciplining you?" he asked.

"Yes," I whispered.

"I am. Shall we start?"

My warmup went well, but as Steven predicted, the trills became my worst enemy. Even with a week's worth of practice, they made me hesitate and pause and lose all rhythm. All too often my fingers came crashing down all at once to create a cacophony of a chord.

He didn't scold me or raise his voice in anger. It was with an even tone that he ordered me to present my wrists to him. "Eight major mistakes," he said.

I rolled my sweater to my elbows and held my arms up and out before him. It was just as embarrassing and thrilling as last week, waiting for my punishment like this. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I know I can do better."

"Can your wrists take it?" he asked. "Should we spread it out?"

To where? I shifted my weight to my other leg, squirming on my feet. "Whatever you think is best, sir."

He spanked over both wrists four times, and hard enough to elicit a squeaky yelp each and every time. I stayed in position, though it was hard, and awaited his next order. Would he bend me right over his knee for the final set?

Instead he lay the ruler just over my palm, securing my fragile fingers into the safety of his own hand. Then he punished me soundly with one sharp sting after another on my left palm, then four more on my right. It was still not nearly as bad as the school strap, a punishment I'd only needed once.

When it was over I felt the heat spread over more of me than usual. And just beyond that, I could feel his fingers against my own. They were warm and steady and stirred up a sense of safety in me. Steven had punished one part of me while simultaneously protecting another. It was so like him to do something like that.

"You can do better," he told me.

"Yes, sir," I said. "I'm not sure what's wrong with me today."

"You look tired."

My lack of sleep lately was largely his fault, though he didn't know it. He made my mind race, and it was hard to think of anyone or anything else. Especially since last week.

I had to turn my attention back to the piano, unsure of what else to do in a moment like this. The lessons across my wrists and hands served me well for thirty minutes or so, before I floundered again, mangling an entire section of the piece. Without being told this time, I turned and dutifully offered my wrists and palms.

"Stand up," he told me.

I did, my legs feeling a lot more like jelly than usual. This seemed serious.

"I would like to ask you something, Penelope."

I nodded.

"Is this new form of correction you've requested only about your betterment as a pianist? Or is it something else?"

I blushed and took far too long to cook up an excuse. His seriousness melted into a soft smile. He leaned forward, and I did too. In just a second I was wrapped in his arms, held snug against his chest. We breathed together and I could hear his heart. It pounded just as fast as my own.

"It's something else," I managed.

"I'm relieved," he said. "Especially because you've just made too many mistakes to count. What am I going to do about that?"

"Try somewhere else on me," I whispered, shy and unsteady.

"I suppose I have no other choice. Turn around. Bend over the piano bench."

His order rung in my ears, glorious and thrilling. "Yes, sir."

I turned, suddenly overwhelmed with a sort of humiliation creeping up my spine. It was complicated, being excited by punishment, but also punished all the same. It might have felt better if I hadn't earned what he was about to do. As I bent over the low bench, I felt my skirt pull up, now only barely covering my bottom and an inch of my thighs.

It was just the cool air around my exposed thighs for a long moment. Then Steven pressed the ruler against my the base of my bottom, over my little skirt. Just in front of me sat eighty-eight keys, and I was just about eye to eye with them as I waited for my spanking.

For a second I thought he'd chickened out, even though I'd dropped every possible hint that I could. Did he want me to sign an official corporal punishment form, or what? Just before I could turn to check on him, a solid swat sent a tingling burn across my cheeks. He hit them both at once, the same way he aimed for my wrists.

It made me gasp, but I stayed in position, bottom presented to him for further discipline. Another four spanks with the ruler stung one right after the other before I cried out a yelp for the first time.

The spanks hurt less than on the bare, vulnerable skin of my wrists and palms. My panties and skirt worked to shield me from most of the smarting. It was more embarrassing than painful, to be bent over and expected to obediently take each swat. And all the while knowing my skirt was barely covering my behind.

He paused and rubbed the ruler over me before taking aim for his next series of swats. It could go on like this all day perhaps, based on how badly I played the last twenty measures. I grimaced as another round of spanks lit up my backside. My yelps were locked behind my shut mouth, as I was determined not to overreact and embarrass myself.

"Stay still," he said. I'd been squirming there as I clutched the edge of the bench in both hands, as if wiggling would cool my hot bottom.

My biggest problem, far more than the shame and the stinging, was the incredible arousal it caused. I wanted him to flick my skirt up with that ruler and lower my panties. Then he could spank my bare bottom red as I moaned before throwing me on the nearest couch to fuck me senseless.

"Just three more," he told me, snapping me out of my flash of a daydream. "Can you take it?"