CARI’S RECITAL

Rod Harden

The pretty young woman stepped onto the stage to polite applause. The dress she wore was flowing, full length, pale yellow in color. It covered her from ankles to chin, with sleeves so long that only her fingers were visible from the ends. Walking to the piano with tiny, dainty steps, she bowed briefly to the audience before turning and taking her seat on the piano bench.

Her posture was impeccable—shoulders squared, back straight, head high. Her jet-black hair fell to the middle of her back, shimmering as it caught the stage lights. Her expression seemed rigid, almost unnaturally so. She sat for a long moment in silence, broken only by a brief, faint, “Hm,” as if she were moaning as she stared at the keys. She shifted her weight several times, each time extending her hands to the keyboard and her right foot to the sustain pedal, before pulling them back, only to shift again. The audience grew impatient, clearing their throats, coughing. At last, she seemed to find the right spot, and began to play.

As the opening measures of the Chopin Nocturne reached their ears, the audience could tell at once that this performance was going to be very special. The emotion the performer was pouring into the music was palpable. Was that another moan they heard? Were those tears welling up in the young woman’s eyes?

Only Cari knew the secret behind her performance. Cari and her Master, that is, as he had helped her prepare as only he could.

Her face showed little expression because there was a foam ball in her mouth. Easily compressed to fit between her lips, it expanded once inside. Cari was sure it made her cheeks puff out, but Master assured her she looked fine, and no one would know it was there, as long as she kept her mouth shut. “Like a good girl,” he’d said.

The long dress hid numerous secrets as well. Beneath its high collar was another collar of thin, supple leather, secured in place with a tiny padlock. It helped ensure she would hold her head high. And hidden under the long sleeves, each of her wrists was locked in leather as well. The cuffs served no purpose while she played, of course, but she knew that later at home they would certainly be used to secure her for Master’s pleasure. Perhaps high overhead to one of the ceiling hooks, or, she hoped, simply to the headboard.

Lower down, the dress hid another pair of cuffs. These were fitted around her thighs, just above the knees. A short, delicate chain connected them, forming a hobble that forced her to take dainty steps, yet leaving her feet free to work the pedals.

But these things barely registered on Cari’s awareness now. For there were other secrets as well. The first was inside her bra cups, which were lined with fine sandpaper. She had been made to wear nipple clamps earlier in the day as she had practiced in the nude. Her breasts always swayed more than she imagined when she played this way, and her nipples were already quite sensitive when she put on the rigged bra. And now the pressure of the gritty paper on them was a constant stimulant that hovered just on the edge of painful, an edge she delighted in skirting, especially in public.

The final secret was the band of steel that circled her waist along with its attachment that extended down between her legs. The chastity belt held in place both a butt plug, which she felt with every movement she made, as well as a small but powerful radio-controlled vibrator locked inside her pussy. Control of the vibrator rested, as always, with Master.

Maddeningly, Cari knew exactly when he planned to turn the vibrator on. He’d told her, even marking the spots so she would memorize them along with the music itself. There would be no surprise involved, only anticipation, intense anticipation. The first time had been before she even started, when she had taken her seat, causing the long delay as she got “comfortable” on the bench. And now she was approaching the section of the music where it would begin buzzing inside her again.

She couldn’t help thinking about it, praying it wouldn’t cause her to lose control. Master loved doing this to her—tormenting her, teasing her, keeping her on edge. In public, though, it was even worse. Or better. She couldn’t decide which. She hated it and loved it at the same time. Exhilarating, frightening.

At last, the moment came and went. Her fingers continued playing, remembering the music for her as her mind disengaged. Had the audience seen her shudder? Had they heard her whimper?

Before the piece was over Master buzzed her three more times. By the time she finally lifted her hands from the keyboard at the end she felt exhausted. Her body continued quivering, her inner thighs damp with her arousal. She looked up and saw him standing in the wings. He smiled and nodded. She’d done well. His approval washed over her like a warm embrace.

Cari stood, tentatively, turned and accepted the applause from the audience, reminding herself not to smile too broadly lest the foam ball in her mouth become visible. As pleased as she was that she got through it successfully, the next challenge now filled her mind: How was she ever going to get through the Liszt?