Free Erotica: Mr. Gillespie’s Master Class

Thanks to your generous votes, I came in first in the grand finale of Alison Tyler’s Smut Marathon. As promised, here is the winning story for you to read without the stress of making decisions :). I should mention that this is NSFW if you have very nosy colleagues who spy over your shoulder, and contains spanking and anal play.


Mr. Gillespie’s Master Class
by Laila Blake

The black keys blur gray into the white ones before my eyes. They swim in and out of focus, like waves. My breath leaves a dewy layer of condensate matting their glossy sheen; and the few strands of hair that have come loose from the regulation bun in the nape of my neck are dancing on the keys, like careful, silent pianists in the making. 
I am bent so low over the piano that I can smell the wood polish. My body is folded over in the middle, perfectly illustrating two sides of a Pythagorean triangle with my bare bottom at its apex. My fingers are sweaty on the top of the piano, slipping this way and that as I brace myself against Mr. Gillespie’s precise blows.

I tell my friends that I take classes; they assume yoga or spin; maybe flower arrangements. A thirty-five year old woman taking piano lessons twice a week, I can’t help but think that reeks of mid-life crisis, of bucket lists and regrets. The truth, of course, even more complicated. 120 bucks per per lesson, 240 per week. Mr. Gillespie’s piano classes have been stretching my budget for months, but I work extra hours and forgo almost every other luxury to squeeze them in. 

“The truth this time, pet,” he says in his measured voice. I jump in expectation of the next blow but it doesn’t come and I hang my head, trying to catch my breath. “Did you practice the sonata?” 

“I… no, Sir, not as much as I should have.” It’s easier to say now, bent over, sweating and facing away from him, with my bare ass red and stinging. I practiced twice, in fact, once a few days ago before bedtime, once just before I got into the car to come here. 
“Was that so hard? You know you can’t pretend here, it’s all in the finger-work, pet.”
Nodding, I watch my hands wrestle for purchase on the shiny, slippery surface of his piano. Their muscles are straining, just like he wants them too. It’s to build up strength; my knuckles pucker white as I direct my exhale towards them. It cools down marginally before it brushes over my skin. 

“How do you ever expect to improve if you don’t put the work in? That’s all it is, you know, dedication… true commitment to the music.” 

I soak up his lecture, relish it with the strength that I used to hate similar tirades when I was young. It’s his voice, I think. It was his voice all those months ago, when I saw his ad on a fetish site and emailed him. He proposed a phone call to go over the details. Before that phone call, it was all a bit of a whim, a horny divorcee enjoying her anonymity online to poke at a few well-nursed, well-hidden fantasies. After it, I was waiting, waiting all week with wet panties for the first meeting. It was that simple; I hardly recognized myself. 

He can strike just the right tone between mockingly condescending and serious, between the whimsical game we play twice a week and the sultry timbre that promises he’ll punish me more with my next answer. His voice is an extension of his musicality: precise artistry. 

“I know you’re not lazy. So…” he pauses for effect; I quaver under his gaze, then jump when he parts my exposed labia. It’s not his fingers; the implement is colder, slimmer and harder than that. With a shudder, I recognize the wooden ruler he likes to crack over my knuckles when I miss a key. “So maybe the problem lies elsewhere. Maybe you’re just distracted, is that it?” Dragging the hard edges of the ruler up and down my folds, he makes me pant each time he passes my clit. “Look how wet you are; I suppose you finger yourself rather than the piano, don’t you? Thinking about the next lesson, dreaming about how I’m going to fuck you?” 

I am about to answer, fumbling for words that would both admit and atone, when he smacks the ruler hard across my already sore bottom. I bite down on a scream. 

“No slouching, keep your back straight. One straight, horizontal line.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

The air seems to crackle between us; I hold my breath. 

“Yes Sir, what? Do you spend more time with your fingers between your legs than on the piano keys or not?” 

I don’t dare hang my head this time, but I do nod. “Y… yes, Sir. I… I’m sorry, Sir.” 

He sets standards that are almost impossible to meet, especially when there is no weekend between sessions, but he’s not wrong either. I’m not supposed to have enough time to get it perfect; what fun would there be in that, but I am supposed to try. 

“You will be,” he whispers, his breath suddenly dangerously close to my ear. I whimper when he drags the ruler down my spine and into the crack of my ass. Then I jump again.

“Aww, there’s my shrinking violet,” he growls, gently prodding my ass with a corner of the ruler. The hard edge makes the breath whistle between my teeth. “I really don’t know why you keep pretending you don’t love anal, pet; you always cum screaming when I stuff something up there…”

There is an ominous quality in voice now. I want to swallow, but my mouth is dry. 

“Open up.” Standing next to me again, he holds the ruler in front of my lips, waiting for me to bit down on it. “Don’t drop it. Don’t move.” 

I mumble something around the obstruction that is vaguely recognizable as “Yes, Sir,” and brace myself to wait. I try not to look at my aching fingers; they shoulder almost the entire burden of this unnatural position and are still slipping on the highly polished wood. He doesn’t make me wait long; I can hear his steps behind me, the slight swish of wind created my his movement. 

“Okay pet, slowly now,” he says reaching around me to slip the ruler from my lips, “Spit in your hand and lube up your ass for me like a good girl who knows how to take her punishment.” 

There’s a knot in my stomach, the queasy, helpless feeling of surrendering to Mr. Gillespie. 

“Ye… Yes, Sir,” I stutter. He steadies me when I lift one hand off the piano and try to dredge up some saliva. It’s not much, but I reach back and rub it against my sphincter. Between the heat in my cunt and my face, I don’t think I have blood enough to fill my legs; I can’t feel them in any case. 

“There you go,” he says, patting my back. “Now carefully sit back, I’ll guide you. Slowly now.” 

My knees are shaking like leaves; for a heartbeat, my muscles refuse to move. I have no idea what I am sitting back down on, or how large a something, and it shuts me down until he exerts that slow but undeniable pull and I surrender. 

He guides me onto a cool, cone-shaped something and at this angle I can hardly determine the speed at which I am sitting down anymore. Gravity does what it does best, all but sucking me lower and lower onto the flaring plug. I scream again at the widest spot, then sit there, shaking and sweating with the unwieldy thing poking my insides. Mr. Gillespie stands behind me, letting me rest against his stomach, petting my hair. 

“What did we learn today, pet?” he asks when I can breathe again. 

I pause, make sure that the first sound out of me is not another whimper or moan of pain. 

“To… to practice, Sir. Not to get distracted.” 

“There you go. Now try again.” 

I stare at the keys, try to make my hands perform the intricate acrobatics necessary. I am slow and the rhythm is all wrong, but he is gentler now. He raps his ruler across my knuckles once, then again, only at the worst infractions. 

When I’m done he has me stand and sit back down facing him. When I descend, the plug spears into me all over again. This time, it drives water to my eyes. 

“You know I can’t fuck you today, don’t you? You have to learn your lesson. Aw, don’t cry, come here, I still have a little treat for you.” 

He pets my face, has me take his cock out and then drags it under my eyes to soak up the tear or two I shed for him. Then he lets me suckle, and my heart starts to slow down, everything starts to slow down and become soft and perfect. 

“You will keep the plug in until bedtime, little one. And you’ll wear it for our next lesson. No cumming in the mean-time, understood?” 

I nod around his cock. Everything is good. 

Detail of female hands tied up


If you enjoyed this, remember that I have a new bdsm themed novella out. Driftwood Deeds can be purchased at Amazon, Smashwords and AllRomance – and will soon be available at B&N and iTunes as well.


Leave a Reply