45
The Puppet Master
Jenna
Playing for Killian becomes part of my weekly routine. It’s not planned like the weekly BDSM play with him; it always happens on a whim. He’ll join us for dinner, ask what I’m working on, ask Ian about my technique, and discuss my performance on the pieces he’s already heard. It’s heady sitting there, listening to them talk about my playing, praising and critiquing me, deciding which new exercises to add to my daily warm-up routine. I don’t get a say in the conversations, and I don’t want one. I just want to float in their control—be theirs.
Some nights after eating with Ian and me, Killian demands that I come upstairs and play for him, and some nights, he simply leaves with a reminder to use my arm weight, or whatever has been the focus of their conversation.
Other nights, they’ll talk about the pieces Killian is working on, discuss composition, or even talk about Ian’s trading. Although I’m rarely part of the conversation, I feel like I belong. Killian has even taken to rubbing my thigh absentmindedly or draping his arm over the back of my chair. Still, he never hugs me or becomes purposefully affectionate, but the change is clear,giving me hope and making me flourish. For the first time in my life, I feel like I can truly breathe. I find myself smiling spontaneously at little things, laughing more, and even singing in the kitchen when I’m helping Ian cook dinner and he lets me pick the music.
My piano playing is also rapidly improving?by the day. Having two teachers creates high expectations, but instead of weighing me down, it motivates me to work even harder. I spend so much time at the beautiful Steinway in the music room that Ian often has to settle for playing at the upright piano in the living room. I feel a little bad about it, but when I suggest that I take the upright, he always refuses and sends me back to the Steinway with a sharp command.
Even my creativity flows in new directions. I’ve never been one to experiment much on the piano, but suddenly I find myself coming up with little pieces of melody, adding onto them, expanding, and composing, until I finally have a whole piece. Feeling uncertain about the new endeavor, I only work on it when Ian is out or playing himself, and I’m especially careful not to play when I think Killian can hear, knowing he’d only mock me.
Alongside all my various piano projects, I keep working on “Die Moldau,” and Ian makes me practice with Killian on a weekly basis, polishing and perfecting the music.
“You two are going to win the competition,” he says one day, matter-of-factly, when we’ve played the whole piece in its entirety.
“Really?” I beam up at him, almost bouncing from the surge of excitement—the idea of a golden trophy. The idea of achieving it alongside Killian doesn’t even bother me; if anything, it feels like it’s just the way it’s supposed to be. I don’t have to beat him to get it; we’re in this together.
“Of course,” Killian says, as if it’s a dumb question. Then he smacks a kiss on top of my head and leaves.
Not the type to linger on praise and flattery when working at the piano, Ian waves me off the bench. “Time for a break. You’ll be playing again tonight.”
Getting up, I frown. “I thought I was going upstairs tonight—to play. I mean, not the piano.”
“You are,” he simply says, nudging me toward the door. “Go eat. There are leftovers in the fridge. Then come to the bedroom. Seven o’clock on the dot.”
Anticipation and nerves dance and twist inside me while I go eat and spend a while reading on the couch—or trying to. The words barely register, my mind too busy considering what is coming.
When I enter the bedroom, seven on the dot, Ian is rolling up the sleeves of his button up shirt, wearing an expression that’s all business.
I pause, gathering my hands in front of me, my breath already quickening. Ian always sends me upstairs at eight, but I have a feeling it’s already starting—that he’s doing something to me first.
“Strip?all your clothes?fold them neatly, and put them on the bed.”
With slow movements, I remove one item at a time and put it away in a neat pile. All the while, Ian just stands there, arms crossed over his wide chest, staring me down with cool authority.
Once all my clothes are neatly folded on the bed, Ian points at the floor. “On all fours and crawl to the bathroom.”
He follows hot on my heel, his looming power going to my head and stirring my submission as I crawl before him, into the bathroom.
“Stop,” he orders when I’m on the soft mat.
I halt, on all fours.
Stepping over me, facing my ass, he cages me in between his legs, pressing them into my waist so I can’t move back or forward—trapped. I strain to see what’s going on when he rummages with something, but I all I can see is the counter and his tall frame.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a thin voice when he smears a generous amount of lube onto my opening.
He doesn’t answer, just proceeds to spread my ass cheeks with one hand and press something against my rear opening. It’s thin and firm, easily sliding into my ass, a bigger part connecting with my cheeks.
I realize what it is just before the water starts flowing.
Killian has done this to me several times, but I never get used to the utter humiliation of having my bowels flushed. And now, having Ian doing it adds a whole new layer of degradation. Panting, I squirm to get free, but the lock of Ian’s legs is inescapable. “No, no, no,” I start squealing, utterly overcome by the shock and the wrongness of the feeling of water flowing into my ass, filling my belly.
“Be still,” Ian orders, smacking my ass.