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(***, M/ff, Intense, n/c spanking)
A woman recollects her childhood music lessons... and the severe consequences of mistakes. (Approximately 1,180 words. Originally published 1995-11.)
Author's Note: This isn't exactly the story of a specific spanking I got as a child, but rather a whole series. There were individual spankings that were memorable, and if you are interested, I'll tell you about them, but for the moment, they are other stories.
My father is a composer. He's not world famous or anything, and I doubt a common person off the street would recognize his name, but in the industry he is well-respected and has even composed popular tunes for several famous singers. Today he mainly teaches music composition at the local university.
Technically he is quite gifted, but his personality is lacking. Perhaps that is why he never made it big. Looking back I can see what a frustrated artist he was, coming so close to greatness but not quite breaking through. Obviously it was his own lack of success that made him push my sister and I so hard.
For as long as I can remember we were made to take music lessons. Every Saturday evening we had to meet with Father for a half-hour each and go through what we had practiced and listen as he explained new techniques and gave us the next week's assignment.
I hated it. For some obscure reason I am not naturally musical and the lessons were a torment to me. I rarely paid attention and did very poorly. My father was often furious with me and would force me to practice for hours, something I abhorred. My sister Julia was far superior to me and could learn almost any lesson quickly, but even she did not especially enjoy it. In fact, though she is a very talented pianist, she pursued an interest in computer programming, and today day she is the head software engineer at a large outfit in Austin, Texas.
When I was about ten or eleven and growing distracted by my new interest in the opposite sex, my father came up with a devious new method of "encouraging" my music lessons. His idea was quite simple. Each week we were required to learn and play a new piece. At our Saturday lesson we would play the piece and he would listen carefully and mark every mistake we made. For each mistake we would receive one stroke on the behind with the wooden ruler.
This was horrible. My sister's superior playing meant she got the ruler only occasionally, and then usually only a few strokes, but I invariably got ten or twenty if I got one.
There was one slight complication to this scheme: if I wanted I could immediately play the piece a second time and take the total of both mistakes but be done with the piece, or I could wait and replay the piece the following week but as payment for the extra practice time I'd have to take the punishment of any mistakes on my bare bottom.
I usually opted for the extra week of practice, though it almost always meant several bare bottom strokes since I could only rarely play any piece through perfectly. If I didn't take the extra week I had to improve upon my previous performance which wasn't likely. Several times I remember doing _worse_ the second go, which only added to my spanking tally. Julia rarely got spanked on her bare bottom, though I do remember a few occasions.
So inevitably our music lessons went like this: I, as the oldest, was first. The initial task was to play the previous week's assignment, which I usually did passably, but not without mistakes. Then I'd have to drop my panties and lift my skirt and bend over the piano bench and Father would take the wooden ruler and spank my naked bottom, one stroke for each mistake. He always spanked me hard with a long pause between each blow to really let the pain sink in.
When he was finished, I had to pull my clothes back on and sit on my sore bottom and play that week's assignment, which usually did not go well, especially with my stinging bottom distracting me. My father would sit next to me clucking his tongue and shaking his head and writing in his little book, sending shivers of terror through me as I frantically tried to imagine what mistake I had made. When I finished playing he would show me the marks in his book and I would feel dreadful, seeing all those dismal mistakes, and he'd ask me if I wanted to try again or wait until the next week.
"I think I'll try it again next week, Father," I'd say, and he'd nod his head and bid me to get in position. I kneel across the bench and flip up my skirt so that only my thin panties protected my bottom and he'd take the ruler and give me the dozen or whatever swats I'd earned.
After the spanking I had to sit and listen to him lecture on music theory and long explanations regarding the next week's assignment. Though he really is a good teacher I usually only understood half of what he said, and though my bottom was sore and I really didn't want to be spanked again, I found it very difficult to concentrate, and inevitably I missed things I should have learned.
After my lesson I got to sit and watch Julia take hers. Though I love my sister and today we are quite close, I always found a satisfaction in watching her get spanked. I was really excited one week when she came woefully unprepared. She got six on her bare bottom and then eight for mistakes in that week's assignment. I was almost dancing with glee even though I'd just taken over two dozen myself!
These music lessons continued right through high school but my father barely changed his methods at all. When I turned fifteen he switched from the wooden ruler to a riding crop, which stung like the devil and left awful red stripes across my butt. Fortunately by then I had learned some music skills and generally gotten my spankings down to less than dozen per lesson, but I still was never perfect.
Worse than the pain, however, was the ignominity of being spanked at such an age. It was impossibly embarrassing to sit fidgeting in school on a Monday morning, my buttocks still sore from a painful Saturday music lesson. Just the idea that my friends would find out horrified me. A few times I even skipped gym, worried that someone would see the red marks on my butt! (Ironically I was caught once, at that earned me a _real_ whipping from my father, but that's another story.)
Anyway, today I have little to do with music (I'm just not that interested), but I certainly have a critical ear for it. My husband tells me I wince every time I hear an imperfect note or missed cue at a concert. He's probably right.
*** Comments on this story or series are appreciated. ***