Debussy's Arabesque No. 1. Andantino Con Moto.

The sound of a metronome is deafening. Every tick makes my heart race. It feels not like a beat but a cage. I often wish my heart would simply go in time, making it easier to find that rhythm with my fingers, but it never does. It simply speeds up, making every joint and muscle tense for the moment where I will make a mistake.
Because I will make a mistake.
My fingers tremble and trill over the keys, trying to keep my mind one step ahead of the melody and two ahead of my fingers. This is always my downfall. And always in my ear is the persistent, unending click of the metronome, waiting to prove me wrong.
I am quickly moving through the piece, fingers aching, ready to be at the end, ready to be released. As the notes trail on and one movement slides into the next, as majors descend into minors and my brow furrows trying to keep everything in pace, I realize I have been holding my breath through each section.
And then I hear it. It deafens me, and despite the seven notes that come after it, I hear only the whining misstep of a finger on a sharp that should have been flat.
I can almost feel his jaw tighten as I make this mistake, so close to the end. I can feel my own tighten. My forearms, hands, and fingers already show the red stripes and bloodied wear of my fuck ups that day.
"You were so close."
I nod.
"I thought you were going to do it this time."
My mouth opens and trembles. "I did, too, Sir."
He places a strong hand on my shoulder and squeezes softly. "Do you think I'm mean?"
I shake my head as more tears begin to well up. My cheeks are already streamed with the lines of halting crying.
"How many measures from the end were you?"
"I raise up an unsteady finger to count." Every measure not there is another reminder that I was almost done. I had almost completed my task. I was so close to standing and smiling and being told I was good and deserved my reward.
"Fourteen, Sir." This is far better than the last run through. But that was only marginally better than the run through before that. And it was the run through before that where the skin on the backs of my hands began to crack.
His hand runs down my cheek, the back of his soft knuckles grazing my jawline. I lean into it, eyelids drifting down. When I feel his hand leave my cheek, I let my eyes remain shut. I sit up straight and rigid, taking a deep breath and finding solace in stoicism. The pain is never as hard as the failure of a task before him. The white heat of his cane I can take. The loss of affection from his failure I cannot.
His cane makes a gentle sweep and comes down on the backs of my fingers as the metronome clicks away. My knuckles already crack with dried blood and shake with focus. The next swat comes down just slightly higher up and my muscles tense. there is nothing but skin and nerves here, and it will only feel like a gift when he finally moves up beyond my wrists. I focus on that. I hear only the tick tick tick, broken by the sweep of the cane through the air.
I focus on the numbers I must announce, eyes remaining closed. Even sitting I feel a loss of balance, my body beginning to dwindle in front of him, and I sway slightly.
Another swat comes down and then another until fourteen have been counted out and announced. My fingers shake, and the more they bleed, the more they will slick on the keys.
"Again."
I place my fingers on the keys before coming down, beginning again. I am shaking this time, my mind slipping off into the pain of welts forming and blood pooling in the lines of my knuckles. My mind is drifting off and away from the tick tick tick of the metronome.
When you topple off of the rhythm of the metronome, it is immediately apparent and today is no different. My fingers, shaking, begin to move faster than they should and I am almost immediately a full beat ahead of where I should be.
He places a hand on the back of my neck. "Stop. You know it's wrong."
I look up at him, eyes glassy with distance and tears. He looks down at me and then stops the metronome. The constant tick which has held me so steady since the beginning is now gone and I am startled by its absence. My eyes jolt to stare at his hand holding it in place. I breathe one ragged breath before I can feel my shoulders relax. I look up at him again, my mouth opening slightly but I have no words. Simply the wish to speak.
"Stand." I do staring at him. I am afraid. I know I was supposed to do it perfectly and I have tried so hard. I wish my face was still blank. I wish I was still in that submissive space where everything is a task to be done and discipline is simply to be endured.
But now that has cracked open and the ache of displeasure is written plain.
He strokes my hair, winding his fingers through the curls that escape from being pulled back. "You are trying so hard."
I nod, the corners of my mouth tightening and pulling back. He steps behind me and I turn back to stare at the music in front of me. He unzips my dress, slowly. He has been specific about clothing, from the dress he likes to the bra, garters and stockings underneath. He pulls the dress from over my head, and I rolls my body and lift my arms without a word. He places the dress over the back of the hair and I, without thinking, step my feet a little more apart. My cunt, which is perpetually wet and ready and exposed for him, touches the air ever so slightly and the slightest chill wakes my limbs and digits.
"Bend over."
I nod, resting my hands on the top of the piano.
"Fingers on the keys."
My fingers perch on the keys without pushing down, tightening my stomach to hold my place. I begin to breathe slower, but more forcefully.
"You are a good girl." I smile, dropping my head slightly.
I hear it before I feel it. The cane comes down on my ass in a searing tick tick tick of the rhythm. I feel it vibrate into my bones, creating a beat with my entire body. I fight every muscle to squirm as his strokes become harder and harder. He wants me to ingrain this beat into my muscles. Into my cells.
Without saying a word I begin to play, moving steadily and slowly, but never languishing. His cane continues, coming down smoothly, guiding my fingers in measure after measure.
He conducts, I follow.