His Special Project
by Jack Lennox* * * * * * *
Jessie has one full fine-toned arse! Charles Throckmorten, the Third, thought his own sentiment indelicate, yet nevertheless that was how he was calling it. Succulent rump covered it, as well, for he might be persuaded without pressure to partake of a big juicy bite the fleshy serving offered. Ass, backside, or hindquarters, but no fruity derriere. Her upturned tail was a firm fundament you could grab and hold onto and, daresay, smack to a bright rosy glow. Now he was going straight to hell, for sure, so he best enjoy the ride.
Standing over the prone and bared young woman, his half-century heart pounded, as much due to her bodacious exhibition as to the anticipation of what he was about to administer. He wondered what the gents would have to say down at the Royal West Sussex Golf & Racquet Club if they could see him now. Plenty of raised eyebrows and a few titters besides - but mostly green with envy, the blinking hypocrites. So things had gotten a tad out of hand. After all she wasn't one of his child prodigies, but rather a fully adult woman -- an adult woman who should, at all times, be removed a full ten meters distant from the piano or any pitiable instrument resembling.
He'd known Jessica Eaton since she was a teenager. Three manicured lawns down the thick shaded road had lived the daughter of an English aristocrat, she the youngest member of an Eaton clan holding longstanding social ties to the similarly stationed Throckmortens. Regular gatherings of the well-connected -- dinners, parties, a wedding and funeral -- had all served to forge their pleasant familiarity, the high-bred girl once polite, even shy. He had, of course, maintained all due propriety but Charles, more than twice Jessie's age, could little help but notice the development of this budding flower of womanhood.
It was one sunny afternoon years later when she had appeared unannounced on his doorstep. They had crossed paths rarely as two adults, and he was not prepared for the sight of her. If a vision of Jessie had not still been a warm bird nested in the back of his mind, he might not have recognized her. She'd cut her brown hair short off her shoulders, had painted her face seductively, and sported a tight low-cut top that dared his eye to wander--all contributing to a look that gave rise to a notion she was no longer the innocent. He'd stood rigid in his doorway as she revealed her long neglected ambition to take up the piano. He'd eventually found his voice, but was unable to find the wherewithal to explain to her that his list of students was limited to a select and privileged few. Against his better judgment, and out of a sense of social obligation to the fussy Eatons, he had instead promised to make her his special project. At the same time, and with a vigorous assurance, he convinced himself his munificence had nothing to do with that low-cut top, or for that matter, that shapely fine behind.
Charles Throckmorten, the Third, soon faced the consequences of his magnanimous decision, as each of her lessons had turned out to be a trial of endurance. His hardship. Every Saturday afternoon that long summer, he'd sat hunched beside her with a helpless dread, the 88 ivories of his nine-foot Steinway Grand abused to squalling by her insensitive pounding. How his head had throbbed in sympathy. If she had merely lacked the natural gift, he might have found a small note of charity, but it became most evident by the third appointment that Jessie had zero enthusiasm for practicing her lessons. To make matters worse, she seemed oblivious to his pain, and took each clenched-teeth critique with a degree of equanimity that could only result one day in the grinding of his molars flat to the gum. Curse the bloody Eatons, and damn that fine behind, he somehow had to convince this Torquemada of the tonalities that her considerable talents lay elsewhere.
When his doorbell chimed announcing she had arrived for her tenth Saturday tuition, the sound was a thin sharp needle inserted into the root canal of his soon to be impacted ear. He considered laying low -- would tell her later of a sudden emergency demanding his immediate vacating of the premises, perhaps out of the country altogether, the south of France beckoning as a quiet place to spend the winter. Instead, his treasonous legs had carried him to the foyer where his faithless hand had unlocked and breached the wide front door.
She blew in on a late summer breeze, sheet music tucked under her arm and a smile that revealed no remorse for the inevitable pain she was about to inflict. And yet there seemed little resembling pure innocence in that expression, he thought, and even less propriety in the manner of her dress. Truth be told, he was rather annoyed. Skimpy top, sloppy cutoff jeans, and no shoes -- it was nothing short of an insult to his professional standing. Just how frivolous did she make of this, his valuable time devoted to her betterment? Did she not realize that he was instructor to future competition standouts and ascendants to the rarified air of concert pianist? It was only by her thoroughly disarming good nature that he lacked the heart to throw her out on her pert denim-packed seat.
As he followed her loose-clad form to the altar of his beloved Steinway, his blood pressure rose. This was precisely the problem with this new generation -- no respect for tradition, no duty to proper decorum. Had she come skipping down the lane this Saturday to visit one of her school chums, to lounge about talking of boys or, God forbid, to play at one of those horrid video games? He had to remind himself she'd grown past such things many years ago.
So on the bench of torture he sat, a prisoner beside her tormented by both the clamor of her feeble efforts, and by the friction of her smooth and supple leg against his as she worked the sustain pedal with a lead bare foot. So close was she that he could not help but detect a fresh bouquet; in his mind a field of pretty flowers in the distance beyond. In his ear, a battlefield where strong men go to die. Nary could an octave of Hanon survive her ponderous assault. As she butchered whole a delicate Sonatina, he saw the reanimated bones of Scarlatti and a banging of skull on the lid inside his coffin. Her Polonaise... well, it was yet another trial of revelation. Now he knew the sound two cats might make should they find the keyboard an inviting surface on which to make kittens.
He really had no idea why she continued with her lessons. If she wasn't going to take the time to practice, then what was the point? Surely, she had better things to do than to torture a poor old man wanting no more than to spend his dotage serenaded by the sweet harmony of the classics. There came a point where he could take no more. In the middle of yet another fumbling passage, he grabbed her wrist and suggested they take a break. She surprised him with a sheepish admission: she hadn't had time to practice that week.
He fumed.
She confided that she didn't blame him for being angry with her.
Small consolation.
She told him she would understand if he felt she deserved a spanking.
His memory was jogged, and at the same time in sympathy something shifted in the front of Charles Throckmorten the Third's pleated cashmere blend gabardine trousers. The Saturday previous, in a pique of frustration, he had threatened his pretty pupil with a jolly good hiding if, in future, she again showed up unprepared. It was but a figure of speech presented for her appropriate consideration, yet still how his hard palm had itched at the thoughtful prospect. If there was one thing this young woman of fine breeding needed, it had to be discipline with a capital "D". In regard to any of his typical students, he'd be ushered directly to jail if he attempted such a thing - and rightly so - but Jessica Anne Eaton was at an age where a red-hot bottom might be just the fire under her form that needed lighting.
It was foolhardy. It was mad. As he stood, turned, and then sat again on the bench facing away from the highly polished Steinway, he thought it highly unprofessional. If there were such a thing, he'd be tossed out of the Piano Teacher's Union on his highly-tuned ear. Nonetheless, he heard in his own rich baritone a direction to stand, and when Jessie obliged, he grabbed her wrist again, this time quickly pulling her face-down over his knee.
Seated as he was toward the bench's end, his upended student dangled helplessly to the floor, her upper torso unsupported, her lower body a pleasant weight on his lap. The remainder of bench served as platform for her rigid straight legs, recognized as both silky and bare. Straining the seat of her threadbare jeans, the full round object of his enduring admiration bloomed ripe to the downward promise of his hand. It was delicious. It was indecent. But Charles was not about to dwell on celebrations or persuasions; he was at that moment purely a man of action. He gave the young Ms. Eaton the sound spanking she'd been earning since her second frightful keyboard exhibition. He applied this lesson fast and sharp -- a few dozen flat-palmed stingers delivered to her ripest curves -- her reaction an accompaniment of 'oohs' and 'ahhs' and a squirming that left a warmth in his lap not so hot as the fire in his hand.
He paced before her, delivering a scalding lecture. She sat wide-eyed, her scalded bottom perched cautiously on the hard mahogany flat of the piano bench. She had failed utterly to appreciate the value of his tutelage. Her cavalier attitude regarding her lessons was an inexcusable show of contempt for a most venerable art. There would be no more wasting his valuable time. He was positively ranting, certainly the longest uninterrupted string of complete sentences he'd had for her since she'd appeared on his doorstep months before. He could have chastised her as well for her inappropriately crude choice of attire but thought better of it. Would he be amiss to admit to himself that she looked delectable?
He soon realized that what she looked like was a girl insufficiently contrite. Instead of the downcast eyes and amenable nods of shamed acknowledgment expected, her gaze was direct, her grin engaging. At one breathing point amidst his barely controlled tirade, he caught the girl licking her lips, no less, as if perhaps the comely tart were enjoying that warm seat he'd provided for her. The circumstances were nothing short of unacceptable. There would need to be further correction.
She asked to use the bath, and he gave her precise directions to a small suite upstairs where she would also be obliged to wait. She quickly adopted a countenance more suited to a naughty schoolgirl detained, but he wasn't buying it for a second. Off you go, he commanded, and then watched appreciatively as she padded up the stairs with a demure glance back. Yes indeed... she needed some time to contemplate consequences for her behavior. He would be along shortly in order to administer a more effective ration of time-honored, old-fashioned discipline.
He needed a drink. Grabbing a bottle of his favorite Scotch from the bar, he made his way into the kitchen for a tumbler of ice. The liquor was smooth down his throat, just a quick shot to calm the nerves yet still retain his keenest skills and faculties. In his head, Jessie was again draped submissively over his knee with glorious arse upturned, the feel of her weighted warmth on top of him. The scene that afternoon had been an out-of-body experience. This was all simply a world away from his safe and tight-laced existence.
When his head finally cleared and heartbeat slowed, he glanced about the grand high-ceilinged kitchen to further restore his bearings. The familiar feelings came over him, always there whenever he considered the huge house and his small and solitary place within. It had become more a museum than a home. His devoted wife had passed on but a year ago, taken tragically so well before her time. The children had grown and drifted away in the years preceding. He'd let the maids go, preferring to have a crew come in to clean.
He often wondered how the condition of expansive living quarters contributed to a lone person's sense of isolation. In his case, did the many empty spaces hold the open promise of their being filled, or were they merely roped off spaces filled with the ghosts of those he loved? Now a beautiful young woman waited for him in a room upstairs, a space always empty but for the once occasional overnight guest. There was an item to be retrieved before he paid her a visit.
She lay on the spartan bed, her top off, her pants lowered to bare her behind. Turned slightly on her haunches, the prone young woman offered him a slivered peak at the promise of her womanhood. He should have been flabbergasted ...flummoxed ...appalled. He found it difficult to reconcile this display with the timid teen who had charmed him so a decade ago. When it came to Jessica Eaton, however, he was beginning to expect the unexpected, and perhaps to even accept the unacceptable. With face buried in the corner, and seemingly oblivious to the implication of her brazen posture, she appeared resigned and ready to receive willingly the punitive fate in store.
In his hand he held a thin whippy cane. It cut the air with a whistle when he tested its spring, and Jessie moaned softly in response. He noted the restless shifting of her hips as she assessed her most tender vulnerabilities. He wondered if she had ever been caned. It seemed unlikely for a girl of her generation. Still, she had assumed a position on the bed with an acquaintance that suggested it was not the first time in her life she had faced corporal punishment. In any case, the modern girl was on a collision course with the old world, now.
Brooking no nonsense, he directed her to lay flat on her stomach, bare feet decorously drawn together where they draped the rear edge of the mattress. His stance exacting, his bearing that of a nineteenth century headmaster, but within a battle of conflicting loyalties. Yes, she had one full fine-toned arse, and he a recent widower with an as yet untarnished reputation. Her unquestioning submission struck him unexpectedly as endearing. By will he forced his heart to slow, considered that which was offered before him and steeled himself to the task at hand.
The midafternoon sun angled in through vertical blinds bathing her skin in fresh yellow light, shadows cast in stripes across her body following the contours formed by the delicate musculature of back, narrow cinch of waist, and nubile flare of a bottom divine. The chance design made of light and dark suggested to him the keys of a piano, the shadow cast by her torso the graceful curves of a Steinway Grand. He measured the cane across her cheeks where he would add six thin red bands in concert with an artful pattern.
The area to be addressed, still pink from her spanking, would be bounded by an imaginary line across the crown of her nates at the top, and just above the juncture of buttock and thigh below. He was thoroughly adept at the precise application of the cane and lightly tapped six times where harmoniously distributed stripes would be laid. Jessie's breathing was clearly discernable to his ear, and it was apparent that a point had been reached where he finally had her full and undivided attention. It would be the tender underside of her holding her attention for the remainder of the afternoon. And so the stripes were laid. Six whistle cuts ...six white-hot declarations. A half dozen gasps of disbelief, followed each with a solemn oath of sweet submission. Six of the best... each eliciting in Jessie a sincere promise that she was prepared to be a very good girl in the future.
And so too, Charles Throckmorten, the Third, found he was prepared to adopt a new manner. It was now apparent to him that the fault of her past failures must be shared. He had, until that afternoon, failed to provide the discipline required to ensure her success. If he were unable to abide such responsibility, then he would be of little use to her. It was beginning to make good sense as he watched her trace carefully with her fingertips the places where he'd raised her flawless skin. Perhaps for his special project, one lesson a week could not provide the consistent supervision she required. Seven lessons a week were possible - such was the depth of his new found commitment. After all, she had made her sweet promises, and there was no telling just how good she could be.