Chapter 9
The Punishment
Jenna
I’m exhausted when Ian opens the door for me the next evening. I’ve only slept a few hours, and after a long day at work, riddled with flashbacks and anxiety, all I want is to go home and sleep. But I’m determined to do this. Whatever it takes.
“Come in, Jenna,” he says when I hesitate outside the door, memories flashing as I stare into the entryway, remembering how he saw my shameful flight from his house that night.
The moment I step inside, more memories come crashing, and anxiety slithers along my nerves. I keep glancing around while I step out of my shoes and hang my jacket, expecting Killian to come out and jump me at any moment.
“You look nervous,” Ian says, placing a hand at the small of my back to guide me down the hall.
I stiffen at his touch, wishing I hadn’t come—wishing this cold, arrogant man wasn’t my only shot at getting back on track.
“Killian is not here today,” he says, opening the door to the music room. “You don’t have to worry about him.”
Surprised, I glance at him as I take a seat on the padded bench.
Instead of stepping close and demanding that I play while breathing down my neck, he remains at the door. “Take your time warming up. I’ll be back in half an hour.” Then he leaves.
I just stare at the door for a moment, baffled by his calm, almost welcoming behavior. Even his clothes were more casual, a black, soft sweater instead of a crisp button-up shirt.
I set my sheet music on the stand and spend the next half hour doing scales and technique exercises. The time spent alone helps, as does the knowledge that I won’t be seeing Killian today. When Ian returns, I’m much calmer. Still tired, but not anxious.
“Coffee?” He sets a mug on a side table close to me and takes a sip of his own.
I reach for the mug, relieved at the prospect of caffeine. When I lift it to my mouth, I’m surprised to see the coffee has cream, like I prefer it. The coffee is better than anything I’ve had in a long time, if not ever—a balm on my frazzled nerves.
Ian allows me a few sips, then takes my mug and sets it aside. “Let me hear the part we worked on yesterday.”
As we start working on the page in question, I remember what he asked about my dignity, and my nerves return. I keep expecting some sort of belittlement, but it never comes. He’s a strict and not exactly nice teacher, but if anything, it only drives my need to please him higher.
“No, no, no,” he erupts at one point, swatting my hands off the keys. “If you want to play with my son, you need to use the right wrist movement. I won’t have any of that sloppy technique here.”
Crowding me, he makes me scamper off the bench to let him take a seat. “Like this.” He plays the same part slowly, exaggerating the wrist movement.
“Again,” he demands, getting up.
I try to mimic the movement, but don’t quite get it right.
“It’s too stiff.” He grabs my right wrist, and a swoosh rushes through me at the feeling of his strong fingers.
“I’m sorry,” I say, genuine regret building in my chest.
He pauses, studying me, seeming surprised. I stare at his hand that’s locked around my wrist—the wide breadth of his knuckles and the thick veins. The sight does strange things to me.
“Like this,” he finally says, moving my wrist in rolling waves. “Not like this.” He moves it back and forth in a stiff line.
Gulping, I nod and lift my hands to the keys. This time, I get it right, and the notes flow much more freely with the new movement.
“That’s it.” He places his hand on my shoulder for a brief moment, and there’s that rush again.
Disappointment rises in its wake when he steps away, and I scold myself inwardly. I should not be drawn to this man. It’s not real affection. He’s just teaching me. I’m too starved to see the difference.
***
Going to Ian and Killian’s house straight after work becomes my new routine throughout the week.
There, I spend hours at the grand piano, with and without Ian teaching me with strict authority.
He always starts out by assuring me that Killian isn’t home or won’t be coming downstairs while I’m there, and around dinner time, he always brings me a hearty meal.
When I get home at eleven, sometimes as late as twelve, I’m so exhausted I can barely stand on my own two legs. I often fall asleep fully dressed, but not without rubbing myself to an orgasm first.
Friday night, Ian asks if I have the weekend off. When I nod, he tells me to be at his place at seven thirty in the morning on both Saturday and Sunday.
I suppress the urge to gape, not knowing how I’m supposed to keep up this routine. I badly need rest. But he doesn’t give me a chance to protest.
“Don’t be late,” he says in a strict tone, then leaves me to find my own way out.
Saturday leaves me bone-tired, and when my alarm goes off on Sunday morning, I’m so deep in sleep that I fall straight back under the moment I’ve turned it off.
I’m not sure if it’s my subconscious mind thinking that I have the day off, as usual, or if I’m just that exhausted, but I’m so far gone that I turn off the next alarm as well.
When the third one finally bolts me upright, I realize the bus leaves in fifteen minutes.
I rush around getting ready, skipping breakfast and makeup, but even so, I don’t make it. Just as I round the corner, ready to sprint for the bus stop, the bus pulls away from the curb. I’m left panting, staring after it, dread curdling in my stomach as I realize I’m going to be late.
Ian is not happy about it. I can tell already when I push through the gate and see him appear at the door.
I hurry down the driveway, gluing my eyes to the ground and ignoring the instinct to flee.
“You’re late,” he says with a stern tone that weighs down on me, making each step up the stairs seem like a climb.
“I’m so, so sorry. I was so exhausted I fell asleep again when my alarm went off, and—”
“Get inside,” he cuts me off.
I’m about to lean down and take off my shoes, but Ian grabs me by the arm and hauls me along, down the hall, past the music room, and into an office.
I don’t get a chance to look around before his hands clamp onto my shoulders and force me to my knees.
I yelp, but the landing is soft—padded leather beneath me.
He pushes me forward, bending me over another leather-covered surface.
A stool. No, two stools joined together, forming a lower and upper tier.
I press my palms into the padding, trying to push myself up, but Ian pins me there with a firm hand on my back.
“Lie still,” he demands with a reverberating authority that stuns me into place.
The upper tier is slanted, making my ass stick into the air, my head dropping toward the floor. When he lifts my skirt, I realize why.
“No,” I gasp, just before his hand connects with my right ass cheek.
Pain flares, reverberating deep into my muscles. I cry out, squirming to get free, scooting my legs farther out on the lower stool. But Ian pulls a leather strap across the backs of my knees and yanks it tight, forcing me back into place.
“No,” I squeal when another smack lands.
I kick my legs into the air, but it’s useless.
Ian brings his hand down twice more, and I thrash even harder.
“Stop,” I cry, flinging my arms back, trying to push him away.
It makes no difference. He swats my hands aside and rains down six more blows in rapid succession, cold and efficient as he administers my punishment.
I’m clutching the legs of the stool by the time the last smack lands, panting through the onslaught of pain.
My ass is on fire, but that’s not the worst part.
I feel shaken to the core, on the verge of a breakdown.
When Ian releases the strap and tells me to get up, my legs are shaking so hard they can barely support my weight.
He points at the couch across the room. “Go take a nap. You look like a mess.”
I don’t protest. I don’t say anything as I stagger across the floor and gingerly sink onto the couch, curling into a ball with my back to the room.
Ian brings a blanket that he spreads over me, tucking me in.
I can’t look at him or even thank him—or what would be more appropriate: demand an explanation.
I’m too ashamed. Too shaken. But when he places a hand on my head, warm and calm, I want to combust under the kind gesture.
He strokes my hair for a minute, and when he leaves, it takes everything not to break down.
Somehow, the loss of that comfort is worse than the spanking.
***
I have no idea how long I sleep, but when I wake again, I feel somewhat revitalized.
Slowly, I push up to sit and find a plate on the coffee table, full of fruit, bread, sausage, and eggs. There’s even a big glass of orange juice.
“Eat,” a deep voice says from across the room.
Looking up, I find Ian sitting behind a huge desk, staring back and forth between three screens and tapping at a keyboard.
I break off a piece of bread and put it into my mouth. At first, I don’t feel hungry at all, but as I start chewing and the food sinks into my stomach, I realize how badly I need the sustenance. I end up gobbling up all the food, forgetting about the horrible punishment and Ian’s presence.
It’s not until I take the last sip of orange juice and set the glass down beside the empty plate that I remember where I am and who’s with me.
I startle when I look up and find Ian watching me.
His expression is impassive; there’s no telling whether he’s angry or merely disappointed.
But it has to be one of the two, and the thought that I’ve disappointed him like that makes my chest ache.
“I’m sorry.” I fold my hands in my lap and drop my gaze. I don’t know what it is about this man. I know my pleaser tendencies are bad, but he makes them roar to life with a vengeance that eradicates all thought of normal conduct and boundaries.
“You’ve done your penance. Now it’s time to move on. Go warm up in the music room.”
Heaving a deep breath, I get up. I feel like a little girl being scolded by the principal as I walk through the room with my hands gathered in front of me, feeling Ian’s eyes following me.
“You’ll stay until seven tonight to make up for the lost time,” he says when I grab the door handle.
Pausing, I turn toward him. Seven? I have several errands I need to run today. There’s no way I’ll make it when I won’t be home until after eight. But when he lifts his brows in a strict expression and nods for me to go on, I can’t protest.
“Yes,” I simply say and leave the room, trying to ignore the desperate longing for him to touch me again.