Singing Lessons

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1985-2020 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

Purchase this story in print form!

Don't like reading on screen? This story is available in print form in Ultimate Archive: Volume 2 at the Flogmaster's Bookstore. Purchase your copy today to encourage the Flogmaster to write more cool stories.

Singing Lessons

(****, M/f, Intense, Fondling, mild spanking)

A girl is bewildered (and excited) by her singing teacher's strange behavior. (Approximately 1,615 words. Originally published 1998-02.)

My music teacher is rather strange. He's an incredible singer, I have to admit that. I've improved tremendously under his tutelage. But his methods seem bizarre, at least to me. I've hesitated to mention them to Mother because she thinks the world of Monsieur Rondeau. She heard he was the best in Paris and Mother settles for nothing less than the best. Besides, it could just be some French thing I don't understand. I don't want to make a fool of myself complaining over nothing.

I meet with my teacher three days a week. Each lesson takes approximately two hours. Usually before I even arrive I am down several points. Monsieur Rondeau is extremely particular about how I dress, and that I arrive on time. He does not tolerate tardiness or slovenliness. I remember one day it was raining and I'd forgotten my umbrella -- Monsieur Rondeau was shocked at my drenched appearance. He immediately made me remove my clothes -- all of them, even my panties -- and while they hung near the fireplace to dry, I stood naked and shivering near the piano attempting various scales.

Monsieur Rondeau insists I dress like a proper French schoolgirl, not like an "American brat," as he likes to call me when he's annoyed with my behavior. This means I cannot wear my favorite Lee jeans and Van Halen T-shirt, but I must wear a formal white button-down blouse with a blue jacket, a short pleated skirt that makes me feel like a twelve-year-old, knee-length white socks, and black shoes.

Oh, I almost forgot the most important part! I must -- I repeat _must_ -- wear a pair of heavy cotton panties. Monsieur Rondeau did not approve of my skimpy American underwear and bought me several French pairs specifically for my lessons. They are wide and cover my entire bottom, which Monsieur says is more proper for a sixteen-year-old. I do not like them as they do not feel sexy. He says I have a fine big bottom and I should be proud of it, but I don't need to display it for all the boys like a common street girl.

Before each lesson begins I must stand in the piano room and wait for Monsieur Rondeau to inspect my appearance. He studies me most carefully -- it is quite a daunting experience. First he checks my general clothing, making sure it is appropriate. Then he examines the fit. (Once he discovered a button undone on my blouse -- I had to remove it for the duration of the lesson. He said I'd lost the privilege of wearing it.) He never fails to lift up my skirt and make sure my panties are snug. This always involves a great deal of tugging and poking, and I have to remain perfectly still or he becomes angry with me. After smoothing down my skirt he checks my brassiere, and then he looks at my hair and face and teeth. Woe is me if everything isn't perfect.

Monsieur Rondeau has a petite notebook which he makes marks in as he inspects me, and I know that before the end of the lesson I shall pay dearly for each of those marks. Try as I might I cannot escape at least a few minute flaws every lesson. For more significant oversights I am punished immediately: usually by loss of privilege for that particular item of clothing, and sometimes by a spanking.

Did I mention that Monsieur Rondeau spanks me? Oh yes, it's a very important part of his teaching method. He insists that proper discipline is even more important than voice training. I am highly embarrassed, at my age, of being spanked like a little girl, but what can I do? I'd die of shame if Mother found out, and if I complain to Monsieur Rondeau he tells me I'm being insolent and spanks me for that!

His spankings are never very hard -- really nothing more than ceremony. First I must go across his lap. As I lie there, face to the floor, bottom to the sky, he lectures me sternly. His hands fondle my hips and bottom while he scolds me. Finally, when I am ready to scream at him to just get it over with, he lifts my skirt. This always sends a chill down my spine. Panic strikes my heart and I wonder if should attempt to escape. But then his heavy hand rests on my bottom and I sigh, knowing there is no escape for me.

He still does not spank me. His hand rubs my rear through my panties for a long time. He tells me I'm a naughty girl, and asks me if I deserve my spanking. If I do not answer in the affirmative he gives me a sharp swat. Eventually, after several minutes of this drawn-out torture, he lowers my panties. Like everything else this is an involved process, requiring much tugging and pinching and caressing. When my underwear is down by my knees I am nearly desperate to get my spanking over with.

The spanking itself is loud and stingy. It does not last long. His hand slaps my bare cheeks a couple dozen times. I gasp and try not to scream and fuss, though sometimes it really hurts. Fortunately it's over so quickly that usually I manage to maintain control, although I nearly always cry, mostly in shame and despair at my dismal situation. Occasionally, when I've been especially naughty, Monsieur Rondeau will spank me much harder, or use his wooden ruler. Those spankings always make me cry for real.

After my spanking Monsieur Rondeau allows me to rise and wipe the tears from my eyes, but I am not allowed to cover my bottom. I must stand for the next half hour and sing holding my skirt aloft so he can keep an eye on my pink fanny. Every now and then, when I miss a note or for no reason that I can fathom, he puts his hand on my bottom for a few seconds and then delivers a searing series of spanks. I must not be distracted from my current task while he spanks me or he has me fetch the ruler. Usually it's for no more than a swat or two, but damn that thing stings!

During my singing lessons, Monsieur Rondeau likes to keep me on edge. He does this by playing with various parts of my body. He teases me with his baton, running it between my legs, or poking my breasts with it. He claims this increases my concentration, and while I have no doubt he's right, it's nearly impossible to sing properly while a man is sticking his finger up your ass or flicking your clitoris with his fingernail. And of course if I am "distracted" by his actions, he reminds me that I am there for singing lessons by whacking my rear cheeks with his baton.

I get spanked every lesson, guaranteed. Rarely do I make only a single trip over his lap -- the average it is three or four times a session. Sometimes I dare think I spend more time crying than singing, but Monsieur Rondeau never seems bothered by such an outcome. At least one of these spankings is always a thorough rulering, which I anticipate with passionate dread. The ruler makes me forget my shame at being naked and spanked like a child -- it fills me instead with trembling at the potential pain. I know it will hurt and I am afraid, but I cannot help but wonder at the bizarre dual nature of the pain. Often rulerings will cause me to wake up late at night, shivering under the covers of my bed, my hands seeking out the rough, sore flesh of my bottom. Rubbing the tiny welts engulfs my body with myriad sensations -- pain and pleasure mix and my hands soon discover another part of my anatomy.

During my bliss I dream of Monsieur Rondeau's lessons -- his hands on my body, spanking me, caressing me, undressing me. I know it is wrong to create such perverse thoughts out of singing lessons and routine discipline, but I cannot resist. My time at night is my only release. During the lessons I cannot think of what his fingers do to my body. When he pinches my nipples I must ignore it, and concentrate on my solo. When his hands grasp the insides of my thighs and rub and rub and pull my legs apart, I must not feel anything, for that would interrupt my song and earn me a smart dose of the ruler or baton. Even when his fingers slip between my legs and enter my private sanctuary, I cannot resist or miss a note. His baton is always there, rubbing my rear, an unsubtle warning.

Tonight as I write this my fingers are drawn to my sore and blistered buttocks. Monsieur Rondeau was most ungentle with me today. In less than two weeks I have to sing at a recital and he despairs of my ever being ready. Today I earned not three or four but _seven_ trips across his lap, and two were with the ruler! Worse, after the third spanking he made me remove all my clothing and perform nude, a distraction that earned me numerous swats of the baton.

Worse yet, he has insisted on extra lessons this week, so I must return tomorrow. How can my bottom stand it? The thought of him pulling me across his thick, powerful legs, his hand lifting my skirt and squeezing my tender rear... my panties descend... his hand rises... Oh! I cannot bear it any longer! I must go!

The End