Day 5: Claire (The Piano Lesson)

Claire’s already at the piano when you enter — she always is. The braid returns, but her clothing’s changed again. A black wrap-top with wide sleeves, a high-slit navy skirt, bare legs crossed beneath the bench. It’s refined, concert hall even, but compared to the loose green sweater with a high turtle neck she wears on her card, it’s pure sensuality. Her frown seems long forgotten too.

She doesn't look at you. Not even when Rebekah and Kailani slip in behind you and take their places against the back wall. But you see her posture tighten. She knows. She wants to be seen.

You approach from behind, but don’t touch her. Not yet. She gasps as she feels your presence in her space.

“Begin.”

She plays.

It’s something modern — unfamiliar, rippling. Almost improvisational. A slow, sensual bloom of tension. She starts composed, but you can feel her masking. You’ve seen how she breaks when she lets herself feel. When she slips, you spank her once more. Not hard. It’s not for pain, it’s for attention, for focus.

“Do not falter. This is not about you. This is the music. The perfect, sensual music. Don’t dream it. Be it.”

You wait until the first minute mark. Then you lean in — not speaking. Just breathing against her ear. A tremble in the chord. Her foot stutters on the pedal. It earns another spank, another light but firm adjustment.

“You will not falter, Claire. Lose yourself in the music. Be the music.”

She doesn’t respond except by picking up again, playing more firmly, more surely and more sensually than ever before. You let a hand trail down her arm. Soft. Fingertips only. She keeps playing.

Another minute. She falters again. You don’t correct with a spank this time, you speak.

“Play, Claire.” Your voice is low. Intimate. “This is what you came for. What you need. When you play, you will not exist. You will not be Claire. You will be the piece. In all its sensual eroticism, you will be your music. Play.”

She doesn’t answer. But her breath hitches. Her thighs press closer together.

You reach across her back — slow, unrushed — letting your palm rest on her hip. She doesn’t falter, not quite. But you feel a tremor that suggests she might. You stroke your fingers over her thighs and breathe into her ear. Your eyes take in the title of the piece she’s playing, one of her own compositions. You whisper it to her. “You are Midnight in New Orleans. Play yourself into being.”

She obeys. Now your voice is closer. “They’re watching.”

A shudder. Her shoulder pulls up defensively — and you respond by laying your hand flat between her shoulder blades. Anchoring her. Focusing her. Reminding her to be the music.

“They see you. They see your truth. You wanted that.”

Still she plays. Still she trembles. When her hand skitters a wrong note, you correct it with a whisper — “There.” — and a light touch to the wrist, guiding her back.

Her breathing is quickening now. The music tightens. She’s speeding toward the edge, barely keeping pace. Then you press your mouth to her ear. No kiss. Just breath.

“Crescendo.”

Her body listens.

She chases it. The sound swells, crashes, crests. Every sensual act, every erotic desire of that dark city washes through her soul like the beat of the night. Her back arches. A sharp inhale as her legs stiffen. Her final chord holds just a second too long.

Silence.

You don’t speak. Neither does Rebekah. Or Kailani.

Claire lowers her head. Her hands fall to her lap, shaking.

You crouch beside her.

“Please,” she whispers. There’s a tear at the corner of her eye. You brush it away with a finger.

“You want to stop?”

“Yes… no… I… I should…” she says, barely audible. “But I need to go on.”

“Only if you’re sure. There is no turning back from the fire when you decide to burn.”

She bites her lip. Can’t speak. Can’t meet your eyes. But finally, she nods.

You rise, turn to Kailani and Rebekah.

“She needs the right clothes,” you say. “And the right mindset.”

Rebekah nods once. Kailani steps forward, eyes gleaming. And you walk away. If anyone can prepare her, it’s the two of them. You are absolutely certain that Kailani will know the best clothes to wear for a striptease while playing the piano. Hell, she’s probably friends with someone who designs them.

As you reach the door you turn back once. “Tomorrow you play with full honesty,” you say. “When you return, you will be stripped bare by sound, just like your article said. But it will not be the lie you told. It will be carnal. It will be your truth.”