Piano Study

Prologue:

“What if?” is the question which launched my novel and all my stories. In this case, I wondered “what if?” – just for fictional fun – the piano could serve as fulcrum for fanciful (temporarily believable) fantasies about student-teacher relationships that don’t reflect any ever in the press. So, tongue-in-cheek, I offer, especially for slightly kinky music lovers, the following high-spirited preposterousness. I will be grateful for your rating and will welcome comments,

“You’re nice.”

It’s easy to be nice to a pupil like you.”

“Would you be nicer if I practiced more?”

Gamin!

“Let me think about that.” I was thinking that he already had popped into adolescence.

“I’ll try.”

“Determination will get you far,” I said before tacking on, “with me, Michael.”

His father eyed me, possibly with approval.

“His brother Joe plays better.”

“Yes, Mr. Psmith. Joe was very attentive to my lessons. That’s why Cincinnati gave him a full ride scholarship.”

Michael’s curly blond head responded to a few encouraging rubs.

“Joe got special coaching,” the boy tugged his father’s sleeve.

“Your mother arranged for those sessions. You aren’t old enough.”

“Am, too, old enough. Plus, I know my pieces.”

Mr. Psmith looked at me. “Does he?”

“This pest knows some,” I squared off with the dad, “but his touch remains underdeveloped.”

“Oh? What’s that involve?”

“Exercises. Special exercises that we don’t have time for at regular lessons, not with the repertoire ahead for the Federated Guild auditions.”

“Son, how many pieces so far?”

“Three,” Michael’s head drooped. He said softly, “I have to have six.”

I poked him. “And your scales and cadences.”

“They’re hard.”

That’s because you’ve learned neither the correct fingering nor the approach. Lazy you. Each is different. Need a lot of work for those – you know, fingering and other things.” I was chiding him for effect. Building up.

“We’ll talk.”

Wingless but itching to fly (I could tell), the potential angel left my house with his father.

***

Just like Law & Order, the phone rang at the right time. Mr. Psmith.

“Tell me more about my growing son’s touch and the exercises he needs. Need to know, you know.”

“I do. Matters of muscles – small muscle groups of the hands and larger ones of wrists, forearms and uppers, shoulders and the whole torso. Factors of coordination, particularly while they’re growing, are important. In fact, if I can be totally open with you, there are exercises to build up to that involve the whole person.”

“Does Michael’s talent justify all that?”

“Too early to tell. Joe’s did – as you know. We got on it early enough. He’s going far. Why, just the other day, I heard from Prof. Apollyon (his brother’s a famous child psychiatrist) about Joe. Been meaning to tell your wife.”

“What? We haven’t heard a thing.”

“It’s a surprise. Waiting for confirmation, you see.”

“About what? Come on. The suspense…”

“Promise not to breathe a word?”

“Yes.”

“Well…the Apollyon Brothers Scholarship for Summer Mentorship at the Hyancinthus Retreat on Santorini. Only six get awarded in the whole country. Joe’s a shoe-in. Won this year’s Best Prepared Freshman at Cincinnati, thanks to me and my methods, I was told.”

Waited for that to sink in.

The man’s low whistle was like a traffic signal changing from amber’s caution to green’s go.

***

“Here we are,” Mrs. Psmith handed over both a check and her boy. “He’s freshly scrubbed like Joe always was, and ready.” She smiled in her motherly way, “Joe gave him a few pointers last evening over the ’phone.”

“Hi, Michael.”

“Hi. When can we start?”

“Bye, Mrs. Psmith.”

“Bye, Mom,” Michael waved.

He turned, “You want me at the piano?”

“Yes, shirt off.”

Off went the shirt, down went his well-rounded, plaid-clad bottom, hands on the keyboard.

“Why is the bench turned like this?” he wanted to know.

“Perpendicular to the keyboard, so that I can sit behind you to coach properly. You’ll see. Hands apart, please, two octaves. C Major, starting on your little fingers and coming together, so the fingering’s the same in both hands. Say the numbers out loud with each note.

“5-4-3-2-1-3-2-1.”

“Now reverse so your hands go back where they were.”

“1-2-3-1-2-3-4-5.”

“Here’s what your bumpy thumbs feel like when my fingers play the scale on your ribs.”

Squealing laughter woke nearby sleeping dogs. A ticklish Michael was in my hands – and I wasn’t letting go.

Up and down between his ribs, I played the scale faster and faster until his shrieks went ultrasonic. Neighborhood dogs howled.

I let go.

When he stopped wheezing, he smacked my knees, took a breath, and asked rather earnestly, “How can you play scales that fast?”

“My hands are arched when I play. Yours are flat. They’re weak that way. Hence, slow.”

I figured what his next question would be, so stood and unzipped, then doffed trousers and undies, remembering to remove my loafers, too. And sat back down behind him. You-know-what already was in a period of growth.

“Feel behind you with one hand. Uh-huh. Get a grip. Now your other hand next to that one. Not on top of each other, silly. One down where my nest of hair is, the other next in line to it. That’s the way.”

Mmm…

“It’s hot and hard and there’s juice or something at the end.”

“Way it’s supposed to be. Feel tightly. Like that. Squeeze hard. Relax. Good. Try moving your arms. Should be able to go about an inch in either direction, back and forth. Ohhh….”

“My shoulders are hurting. Can I turn around?”

The perfect question.

“Sure, but for protection, take off your pants, too. Shoes first or you’ll be stuck.”

Naked – splendidly so – he flexed his arms and wriggled his short fingers. Then he saw.

“Wow,” he exclaimed, “that’s big.”

“Nearly eight inches, one for each note in your scale’s octave. Sit facing me and take up your exercise again so we can build the muscles in your hands and give them a nice arch like mine have.”

“Like the way yours’re cupped around my bottom?”

“You’re so tense down there. Here, I’ll give each half a little more room for….”

“I feel the air. Cool.”

“Excellent. Use your grip back and forth with both hands – stimulates your biceps and triceps. Uh-oh, but keep your shoulders loose. Weak hands and tense shoulders make for lousy piano playing.”

“There’s more juice.”

“And more to come. Shift your grip. Turn your wrists. Keep pumping.”

Splats covered my pupil’s chin, neck, and collar bone. He sputtered.

Immediately, I sprang to him with a towelette, but not before his tongue tipped out to taste a dribble.

“Salty, like peanuts only without the crunch,” he said, cheery.

“You brother liked it, too.”

He swiped a finger to a gobbet I missed – and stuck it in his mouth. “What else did he like?”

“Where my fingers are goosing you, he liked me loosening the tension there. You know, tension in your body needs to be released if you want to play the piano well.”

“You said something like that already.”

“Repetition’s part of driving home a point.”

“You want to drive a point home in me?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

“Did Joe?”

“Right on time, like you.”

“I’m tired of Minuet in G and Tarantella. I want to play Winter Wind and Ocean, like Joe.”

“Not yet. Look at yourself. Remember when you had jelly-bean balls and a pencil nubbin? Bet you do. Now you’re ‘out there’ manly-like. Some hairiness. Only, the pieces you want to play need bigger – uh – hands.”

“Joe hinted at something like that. Said you knew what to do. Touch. Something about getting touched during lessons is a reason kids enjoy being keyed.”

“It’s what coaching’s all about. We’ve an obstacle course ahead, you and I.” With a straying finger, I felt around. “If your parents approve, we can tackle each obstacle one by one and surmount them.”

“Joe said you’d mount me.”

“Does this feel funny?”

“Not now. What are you touching?”

“Your special place – that’s very thirsty and in need of exercise to help you grow.”

Michael’s face lit up. Kid was smart.

“Your thing and your real juice, not that stuff at first?”

I kissed his brow under a stray curl of blond, my finger in all the way. “You’re going to get the full treatment. My best. My very best.”

“But I’ve got school every day until 2:30,” he wriggled. “And I have to practice my pieces.”

“Turn and sit on this, and I’ll prepare you to practice Climbing and Monkeys in the Trees.”

He looked at the smallest pink dildo from my nearby cabinet.

“Okay.” And sat. With the cutest smile, he asked, “Like this when I practice at home?”

***

“What did you do to my son?” Mr. Psmith’s odd tone frazzled me for a moment. Were we about to skirmish?

“I beg pardon. What’s he up to now?”

“Practicing like a madman. Jumping off and on the piano bench, playing arpeggios all over the ivories, piping, “Yes – yes,” with every bounce. My wife’s never seen him like this, nor I.”

“It’s the coaching, Mr. Psmith. So useful at this age to fostering teen talent.”

“He has talent?”

“It seems so. If I saw him, say, twice a week instead of once….”

“Say no more. Mrs. Psmith and I will discuss it. Do I recall correctly that we must pay a month in advance for each four-week period?”

“As with Joe. And you are free to discontinue if the results are not satisfactory at the end of each period.”

***

Für Elise and From a Wigwamwere ready along with Michael’s other pieces plus Brahms’ Lullabye for Federated Guild auditions. Major scales, too. His cadences, one judge wrote colloquially, “Have a ways to go,” but he scored high and got his first gold-starred certificate of participation. Popping with pride, he showed his father.

“See? Now I can go to the next size!”

I hastened to explain, “He means, next-size repertoire,” my hand threatening the boy’s butt and punching the dildo tucked there. “We may jump to bigger – um – pieces by Mozart, Mehul, and Moszkowski.”

Another nudge from behind and our angel elevated to his tiptoes. “I’m enthusiastic, Dad!”

***

We moved into higher gear. Months of three sessions a week worked wonders. Michael sprouted physically and musically. Handel, Haydn, and Honegger found their way beneath arched fingers shortly before Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms. Michael’s memory and rear aperture mushroomed in unison.

***

“It’s hard to believe how motivated he’s become,” Mrs. Psmith remarked, slipping my check under the metronome. “He’s practically living at your house. I hope it’s not too much, what with your other pupils.”

“Mrs. Psmith, I’ve been meaning to speak to you and your husband about something important.”

An inclined head I took as a good sign. “Yes?” She held tightly to her purse.

“There’s a competition coming up in Capital City. Could you spare Michael for a couple of weekends before we head there? No extra charge. I can feed him and see that he does his laundry.”

“You are so earnest. I can’t see why not. He’s there so much already.” She did something with her shoulders, a sort of shrug.

***

A word about cadences. My pupil was naturally inclined to the gentle Plagals. The more forceful Authentics had to be drilled into him – V-I – hard, at which I was very strong and he eagerly receptive. Both types were well behind him.

Scales Major and minor went from scampering to racing over four octaves. My scampers over him had been key to this dazzling progress.

Michael’s pieces now included Liebestraüme and Rage Over a Lost Penny. Tears were wiped away by one juror during the former and all six jurors broke precedent by applauding the latter (its breakneck tempo dropped jaws).

Celebratory banana splits after his being handed the blue ribbon and prize check for $500 let us discuss how these miracles had been obtained. As we imbibed in our room at the Capitol City Biltmore, he was grateful.

“The way you pinched my nips while waking me in the middle of a dream to be fucked was so romantic that I knew then how to express the Liszt.” Sky-blue eyes looked longingly at me, then blinked. “The Rage I understood that time when I lost my key to your house and you smacked my butt and fingered it and smacked and fingered, and crammed your cock in like a Mad Hatter.”

“And what about today’s speed in the Beethoven?”

“Oh, yes! Want to remove your new plug from my bottom? The electro-stimulus battery’s gone dead.”

What’s not to love about such a pupil?

My pride vaulted when I was handed this 17-syllable haiku Michael, my angel, had written in poetry class:

FOR THE BEST TEACHER IN THE WORLD

My emptiness

Your fullness there

To – Fro

Life-grip happiness

I screwed him longer than I should, holding his mouth shut. When cooling down, we noticed muffled song coming through the wall of the room next door. Couldn’t tell quite what was going on.

Bits of song. High notes. Trills. Glisses. A scale or two. Some arpeggios.

Manipulating my still-nestled cock back to life with anal tremors, Michael proved prescient. “That’s that boy – ooh! – Oscar-something. Oooh! We met him with his coach – you know, after the competition. He won – ooooh! – the soprano – oooh! – category in the Vocal Division – ooh! – same as me in the Piano Division. Oh – that felt wonderful.”

We keened our ears. Yep. Doubtless, another coach in time-honored pursuits with a prize pupil.

***

We almost missed our early bus home. In the Biltmore breakfast room, we saw them. Michael waved. The boy waved back. We went over, all smiles.

They congratulated each other. Exchanged names. We men shook hands with rather dubious regard, perceiving differences. Oscar Luis Menedez-Finklestein was telling his coach to eat his oatmeal more slowly, not to drink his orange juice so fast, how much sugar to put in his coffee.

Michael, incredulous as I, studied his menu. We ordered.

Oscar told us, “It’s embarrassing to take him out in public, but my mom couldn’t come, so I had no choice.”

“Well,” I said in an effort make conversation, “Michael’s no trouble at all on a trip like this. He minds his manners and takes instruction from me all the time.”

Scrambled eggs showed on Oscar’s tongue as he gaped incredulously from his side of the table, and slapped his coach’s hand as it reached for the marmalade. “No you don’t. Can’t have you getting fat.”

Michael tried deflecting the situation, “Weren’t you thrilled by the money we got?”

Oscar pulled his check from a shirt pocket and spun it in the air. “This? It’s nothing to us. We make real money. This is for my mom, who always wanted me to sing. You know, Ave Maria and shit like that. The Queen of the Night – I can still hit those high Fs dead center. Who can beat that?”

Under my napkin, “Smug twit. I’d like to beat him!”

Michael and I swapped glances. As pleasantly as possible, I asked my counterpart, “Is your profession – chaperone for prodigies?”

“Movies,” was all I got out of him. He frowned. Fidgeted.

“In the other arts, are you?”

Braggart Oscar butted in, “You must have seen us – with my friends – in Battman and His Butt Boys or The Green Hornet & His Hive. We’re famous all over. Did some others, didn’t we?” he nodded to the man we assumed was his coach. He nodded yes before resuming his oatmeal.

If either was ashamed by such a blatant admission, he didn’t show it. Oscar, in fact, seemed proud.

Our swallows were audible. We excused ourselves, paid the bill, left a tip, found a cab, and made it to the Trailways station as our bus was loading.

Glad to have made our escape from such an unexpected encounter with the seedier end of the of the entertainment industry. I wondered whether superheroes had lost touch with taste. That a vocal talent such as Oscar’s resided in that crass a small body appalled me. Just for money?

Poor Michael was so upset that, settled as we did in the rear-most seats, away from the stares of others and while the bus pulled out, I had to cuddle him, reassure his confidence in our naturally-balanced, maturing relationship, kiss him continually, and play with his ass.

***

Leaps and bounds during the next months and into another year took my angel through understanding Bonpensiere’s techniques and Réti’s insight, and into piano works new for him, works which outstripped the repertoire of his more gifted peers. Those misguided youths tended to more physical than mental growth. Evidence came from behind practice room doors at the Regionals. Notes. Plenty of notes. Brainlessly accurate, too. Little else.

Such childishness lay in heaps behind my Michael, back with Climbing and Monkeys in the Trees,the Wigwam thing and Lullabye. Way behind. His behind (but you’ve discerned that).

We checked out the competition by strolling the Conservatory’s halls. Of those loudly plying practice pianos there our first day, one’s playing caught Michael’s ear. He pointed. “He’s got something, maybe.”

The rare opinion drew my eyes to what could be seen through the small window in the closed door. The boy, perhaps sixteen, sat slightly slumped. Raised shoulders supported what appeared to be good arms and hands, his pedaling sounded adroit. The color – timbre is the musical word – which he drew from the third-rate, ill-tuned Petrov was near that of the coastline demanded by The Isle of Joy but far from making landfall with Watteau-like revelry. Yet, Michael had perceived the latent quality in the boy’s efforts.

“Good ear,” I said, hoisting Michael for a view of the raven-haired, swarthily appealing teen. Something exotic to his profile. Continuing our peek, we went unnoticed as shortcomings cropped up and were noticed. Inner lines lost direction. Passages were re-taken slowly, the score consulted, the sultry head scratched. I put Michael down.

“Talent that has not experienced mutuality. Its processes have been missing from his instruction.” As we left the building, I said in a hushed tone, “It may be too late for him.”

Two contestants returning from a break headed past us. One must have heard enough of my comment that he turned and stared.

I took Michael’s delicate-looking, ever-strengthening hand.

***

My darling swept through the Regionals’ opening and middle rounds. Word circulated. An audience of earlier contestants, parents, teachers, and townspeople assembled for Michael’s final program: Bach’s Ricercer a 6, Webern’s Variations, Hummel’s Rondo, Schumann’s Toccata, Debussy’s Flaxen-Haired Girl, and Prokofieff’s Third Sonata.

Applause after each had to be shushed, although there was no stopping the ovation at the end. Well-wishers blocked our exit from the lobby. I faded into a corner to let Michael handle them as he had been taught – politely acknowledging their compliments, smiling sphinx-like at each person while declining to shake hands. How he canted his head charmed all, but not like the slight bow that signaled his move to the next person.

Suddenly I was approached by the boy from the practice room. “Sir, may I speak with you?”

“And you are?...”

“Ramses Córdova.”

Face-on, he was handsome as a media star. If you’re old enough, think a very young Omar Sharif. “Mr. Córdova, how may I be of help?”

Five minutes later, we were outside in fresh air to wait for the judges – the three of us, eyed from not far away by the two losers who passed us near the practice rooms.

Timorous at first, Ramses asked Michael how much he practiced. When told, “As much as I need to,” he rejoined, “How do you know when that is?”

“When I’ve got everything right enough for my teacher,” he indicated me. “Then the details begin.”

Puzzled by Michael’s obtuse reply, Ramses’ umber eyes turned my way. “Sir, how do you handle the details, if I may ask?”

“You may. You are not my pupil, so I only will tell you that we strip away inessentials to learning and apply ourselves together to finding solutions to such problems as crop up with our progression through each new work.”

“My teacher….”

“I am not interested in your teacher. Nor is Michael.”

Shock registered on his well-intentioned face. “Sorry. I was trying….”

“Trying to do what?” I was not unkind the way I asked. Just looks that way on the page.

Ramses appeared to appreciate my kindly smile.

“Are you wanting to ask us to hear you play?” My arm went around Michael, “We do everything together.”

“Please – may I play for you?”

“To what end?”

“Your opinion…and your suggestions…they would mean a lot to me. Your student’s playing” – he looked at Michael, staring – “made me feel wonder, like all through my body.”

“Go no further, Ramses. You’re aware! Responsive. Good signs. But mine is a policy never to interfere with another teacher’s work.”

“May I audition to be your pupil?”

A loud bell clanging interrupted. The outcomes of the Regional finals were about to be announced.

We moved to sit in the hall, the three of us together.

Outrage erupted when it was proclaimed that all three prizes were being consolidated into one for “the exceptional Michael Psmith.” My Michael. Such was the uproar that no one heard the additional statement about why.

“Go, my precious,” I leaned to Michael, “You know what to do.”

Ramses, who tugged at his pants, watched, breath on hold.

Michael walked onstage, extended his hand for the microphone, and said distinctly so that everyone heard, “This honor, which my teacher and I appreciate, is impossible to accept. I renounce any claim to the award and respectfully ask that my name be excluded from consideration. Please rank your prizes as advertised. Let it be as though I never participated here.”

Utter silence. No one in the field of music had ever heard the like. Michael returned the microphone with a courteous bow, nodded to the room, and was composed as he walked to where I stood with Ramses. A tsunami of applause receded as we closed doors behind us.

***

The director of the Federated Guild’s National Competition ’phoned. “We are flabbergasted,” was how he began. When he ran down, I entered the conversation.

“Sir, if Michael wishes to compete in the finals – I will ask him – he will do so with new repertoire from five historical periods…. Yes, he may opt to reuse pieces from earlier but only to satisfy your organization’s requirements, not because they any longer challenge his development…. No, neither of us wants to be interviewed unless the questions solely focus on the music…. Of course. If you hold, I’ll see whether he can interrupt his exercises to speak with you.”

Michael, who had undertaken Ramses’ instruction on a trial basis, was engaged with him, but not fully. Seeing the ’phone, he pulled out. I handed over, heard him say “Michael Psmith here. May I help you?” I slapped Ramses lightly on the side of his neck, before leading him, quivering, by the hair of his nape to my room for the first time.

***

You probably wish to know how Ramses came to be with us.

Michael was now at the age when my prodding of him had stimulated more than musical growth. Owner of five inches striving for six, he appropriately needed to add to his experience their use in ways his strengthened, well-arched fingers no longer sufficed.

There is a time, you know. The teacher must prepare the well-taught to teach.

There stood Ramses, not talented enough for me but a project with which Michael’s fledging could begin. Perhaps take flight.

They had spoken. Quite privately. In my place, visits approved by Ramses’ parents (she Egyptian, he Spanish). Aspects of piano study and musical perception, and youthful anatomy’s connection to both were detailed. Hands on, Michael went over the basics, testing systematically Ramses’ interest in and response to each.

Each positive response was rewarded silently by a kiss on the lips, the third of which affixed the charm. That charm opened floodgates inside the half-Egyptian teen, and melted snows from Ethiopian peaks inundated the boy’s spirit. Like the Nile in June; his banks turned lustfully lush.

His Isle of Joy began its path toward Elysian Fields. Under, and I do mean, under Michael’s tutelage. I heard two Preludes by Chopin and one by Bach being memorized a chord at a time. Exactly. Baby steps.

***

Michael’s personal room had its Bechstein. Mine, my Bösendorfer Imperial.

Rameses’ young body shook at the sight. “Oh, my!”

“Goosebumps? Want a robe?”

“Oh, sir. I had no idea…. Please.”

“Mine’s capacious. Already warm. I’ll enclose you in it with me.”

“Oh sir, is that you pressing against my spine?” He continued to ogle the Bösendorfer.

When no answer came, he twisted around, grabbed my neck, thrust his naked tumesence against my front, declaring, “Oh sir, this is the greatest moment in my life.”

“Your life’s impoverished. Michael! Come here, please.”

Michael appeared, saw me holding Ramses tight, came near enough to hug us both through the terry cloth, and said, “Sorry about that, but it was for the best to get rid of that man as quickly as was circumspect. He’s got only tabloid values.”

“This boy needs tending to – now – while I’ve got a grip on him.”

Un-phased, Michael sought the lubed spot he had had to abandon. Ramses gasped, his mouth finding one of my nipples and sucking as he could between surges into his newly-accustomed rear access.

“Chopin C-minor Prelude, third phrase, name the chords.”

As he named each steadily onto my chest hair –“C-minor, A-flat seventh, b-minor seventh, g-minor, incomplete a-diminished seventh…” – his teacher, on his toes, fucked and nodded in agreement. As the final c-minor chord was named, Ramses shuddered, slathering me with ejaculate.

I let him finish. Michael slipped out fully under control, firm. He looked my way.

“We never waste a drop. Neither of us needs what you just produced, so you must ingest it. Suck there and lick until you’ve left me clean.”

Ramses’ position resembled a hieroglyph. One leg bent at the knee, the other knee directly down to support, arms uplifted in adoration – palms out, touching my front – he did his new duty and waited.

Egyptian instinct, I judged.

“Continue with him,” I told Michael. “He has begun to learn.”

A slight smack to Ramses’ cheek. His head swiveled back as if to invite another.

“You will perform your pieces in here on that,” I pointed to my piano, “in two days. Not play, perform. If you do not understand what that means within two days, then neither of us will speak to your parents about relocating you to these premises. You may go with your teacher.”

Michael, a finger in Ramses’ rear, steered him from my room. The voluntary recruit had noticed nothing of my room’s other furnishings, nor would he until true criteria were met.

My novel snakes its steamy way over and beneath the viaducts of the not-so-innocent in the art world: https://www.amazon.com/Young-Edwin-Eros-Art-Cooper/dp/0692056823.

Thanks to gaydemon, my sex-driven stories about agriculture, education, small town life, and high culture await your pleasure,: https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/authors/cooper/.