by Lucy Appleby
I was seventeen when I persuaded my mother to let me have music lessons with Mr Kennedy. I recall she showed a great deal of surprise initially when I informed her I had always been mad crazy about learning to play the flute.
"Really, Katie?" She looked at me in a mixture of surprise and doubt. "The flute? I never knew that."
"Oh but it's true," I lied. "It's a fascinating instrument. That's why I saved all of my Saturday job money and bought a second hand flute off E-bay."
"You did? That's commendable." Mum looked impressed. She wasn't to know I pulled the old flea-bitten thing out of someone's bin as I was on my way to the local shop.
"Yeah, and I heard that Mr Kennedy is the most brilliant private tutor, and his fees are very reasonable."
"Well, I guess as you've shown such initiative, I'd better say yes. I'll pay for six lessons, and we'll see how you get on."
I grinned, rushed off to my room and did a small jig. I hated the flute and had no interest (or aptitude) in playing one. No, my interests were 100 per cent focused on the sexiest man alive: Steve Kennedy, the handsome music teacher who lived across the road. At ten years my senior, I thought he was sex on legs, and he fuelled my hormone-fuelled fantasies every night for weeks.
So on the appointed hour, I knocked on his door, armed with my hideous and battered flute that smelled strongly of fish.
"Ah, Katie. Come on in." He flashed me a charming smile and led me through to his front room. "Sit down." He indicated an arm chair, then cast a somewhat dismissive look at my flute.
"It's ancient," I offered apologetically. "Someone found it in their granddad's garage." Well, I could hardly admit I got it from a rubbish bin.
"I'm sure it will be good enough to practice on until you get the hang of things. Can you play anything yet?"
"Nope. That's why I'm here. I want you ... to teach me," I said with a sly smile, as my inner self silently screamed, I want you, I want you!
"Ok. Can you read music?"
"Yes." I could. It wasn't a lie.
"Great." He rubbed his hands together and smiled in a way that made my heart do a back flip. "We'll get started then. I'm going to show you how to blow properly."
Oh yes, oh yes! I gibbered inwardly. I wanted nothing more than to learn how to blow him. He was tall and dark haired with cornflower-blue eyes that made me tremble with excitement. It was an effort to keep the quiver out of my voice. "Oh yes, teach me to blow properly. Please."
I was very inexperienced back then. I did have one encounter in the back row of the cinema with Jimmy Rawlings. He fumbled inside my bra with one hand, the other clumsily groping in my knickers. After that, he unzipped his jeans and invited me to 'blow' him. Well, I didn't have a clue. Somehow I managed to get the end of his dick in my ear, then I almost poked my own eye out with it, and then I knocked over the carton of Coke in his lap. That soon put an end to those shenanigans. I had a subsequent session with my friend's brother, Henry, but we'll not go there. I'll just say it was equally disastrous as my dental brace came out and kind of got stuck on his nob...
So you see, I really was in need of lessons.
"Le me show you how to hold it," he said.
Yes please! I got that deliciously naughty tingly feeling in my tummy when he said that.
In a very professional manner, he showed me how to hold my flute correctly.
"Posture, Katie... shoulders back. Head up. Breathe through your stomach," he said.
"Eh?" I was genuinely puzzled. "Breathe through my stomach?"
He was very patient, and I just loved his nearness. He was so close I could smell his aftershave and feel his warm breath on my neck. Things motored along a little, and then they became a great deal more interesting.
"You need to adopt the correct embouchure to play the flute correctly," he told me.
"Um ... I'm not too sure what one of those is..." He soon put me straight, explaining the use of the facial muscles and the way I needed to shape my lips. So there I was, pursing away and making a kissy kissy face at the sexiest man in the world - and he was doing it back at me! "Am I doing it right?" I asked him.
"Indeed you are. Now I want you to produce a sound. Blow across the mouthpiece as though you were blowing across a bottle. What should happen here is that half your breath should travel over the hole as the rest travels down through the flute."
I blew. Nothing happened. Not even a squeak.
"Try again," he said, watching my lips so intently I could feel the heat rising to my face.
Well, I huffed and I puffed, and that old flute didn't make even the tiniest squeak.
"Bastard old thing," I muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing." I tried again.
Mr Kennedy shook his head. "Your face is all wrong."
I got a bit huffy at that point. "There's nothing wrong with my face." I was wearing my best lipstick and lashings of black mascara.
"Keep the corner of your lips quite firm, but not too tight. The hole of your mouth needs to be very small as you blow."
I pulled the required face, puckering up all ready for a big kiss. Sadly, I didn't get one.
"Good. Now say the word 'poo' and freeze your face, and that will result in the right facial position for you to play the flute."
I gawped at him. Poo? Did I hear right? I'd turned up in the hopes of him ravishing me on the rug, and he wanted me to say 'poo'.
"This is stupid," I said.
"It's necessary if you want to learn how to play. Now, let's have another go, shall we?"
After ten minutes of puffing and pooing until I was red in the face, I gave up. In a fit of temper I stamped my foot. "I'm fed up with this, and I'm fed up with my mouth hurting - and I'm fed up with this stinking flute," I declared, and hurled the thing over my shoulder.
There was a huge crash, followed by the sound of broken glass.
I turned slowly. My flute had smashed into a lovely ornate wall mirror. Broken glass shards lay on the rug. And my flute was even more battered.
"Ooops."
Steve Kennedy fixed those blue eyes of his on me. I tried to look away, but I couldn't. It was as though I was hypnotised. I was vaguely aware of a little vein pulsing at his temple.
"Do you know how much that cost?" he asked eventually.
"Er, a lot, I expect. Um... sorry... really I am. I didn't mean to do that."
"Oh but I think you did. I shall give you a note to take home with the bill for the damages. You owe me three hundred pounds."
My eyes widened. "Three hundred? Oh no." I gulped. "Mum doesn't have a lot of money. And I don't either. I'm still at school."
"I see."
"Please don't tell my mum. She'll kill me," I said dramatically.
"So what do you propose to do about it?"
"Anything."
"Anything?" His expression had undergone a not so subtle shift. He looked like a very hungry crocodile eyeing up dinner.
I nodded. "Of course." Hey - is this my big chance? Is he going to ravish me after all? I sure hoped so, as being an optimist, I'd taken care to wear my very best knickers. I watched as he strode over to the sofa and took a seat in the middle.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen... almost eighteen."
"Old enough to know and demonstrate appropriate behaviour then," he said, and I flushed and squirmed beneath his scrutiny. "I'll offer you a choice. You can either present your mother with the bill for my ruined mirror, or you can come here for the next six weeks and have your bare bottom spanked."
"My ..." I was so stunned I couldn't articulate the words. The thought of him spanking my bottom ... my bare bottom ... was horrifyingly embarrassing. I wondered whether I could persuade him to ravish me instead, but I doubted it somehow.
"Should you opt for the latter, I will say nothing to your mother about the mirror, and she will assume you are continuing to attend for your six-week course of flute lessons. So, Katie... what's it to be?"
I stood there shuffling my feet, bright red in the face as I stared at the carpet. Oh how familiar I was to become with that carpet over the coming six weeks!
"Er... I suppose I'd better get a spanking then," I mumbled.
"Not a spanking - six spankings." He glanced at his watch. "There's still ten minutes remaining of your lesson, so we'll make a start." He smiled then, showing a row of gleaming teeth. He patted his lap and beckoned. "Over you go."
I tottered towards him on my ridiculously high heels, a pained expression on my face. Did I but know it, my face would shortly be registering considerably more pain, and so would my bottom.
"Come. No dawdling," he barked.
With all the grace of an elephant, I got over his lap. Though I had secretly yearned to feel his hard, firm thighs pressed up against mine, I didn't exactly have this scenario in mind. I felt stupid, all arms and legs. I reached round to pull my skirt down lower. For some reason he found this amusing, and a low throaty chuckle escaped his lips.
Then he got down to business, shoving me a little further forward so that my bottom was pointing up at the ceiling, and my legs stuck out behind me. For one brief and glorious moment I felt his hand rest lightly on my skirt ... and then, oh horrors ... he raised my skirt up all the way to my waist, exposing my knickers.
"I'm going to enjoy this," he said, and brought his hand cracking down sharply on my upturned rear.
"Yeow!" I squealed. Having never been spanked before, I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but as his punishing hand descended again, delivering six more hard spanks, I began to understand. "Owww!" I wailed. "It hurts!"
"Of course it hurts, you silly girl. It's supposed to." And then he pulled my knickers down.
"Ohhhh!" I shrieked. My face felt beetroot red at the thought of him seeing my bare bottom. There was a pause, and then he began to spank me again, and this time it was different. This time was more intimate, feeling his hard hand cracking down on my poor buns. The sound resonated round the room.
"Ah, now that's better," he declared, and whacked away, building up a rhythm. He spanked hard and he spanked fast, leaving me breathless and squealing like a pig.
At one point I began to try and get off his lap, but he was having none of it. Catching hold of my wrist, he pinioned my flailing arm and held it fast. I could still kick though, and kick I did. My swimming instructor would have been proud of my leg action. Unfortunately, I kicked so hard my knickers flew right off. I wailed out my embarrassment and hurt, all of my previous ardent admiration for Steve Kennedy melting into the ether.
He stopped. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, which was premature as he'd only paused to grab something.
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