The Piano
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The Piano free porn video
Mrs. Emily Draper had tea brought to her every day, at one o' clock, in
the drawing room of her modest country house. It was one of her little
pleasures. She was a bit older now, and always felt a little worn out
after taking a stroll in the gardens before lunch. Tea was the perfect
remedy, and her maid could be relied upon to bring it up to her.
After hearing the chime of the clock in the hall, Peter finished
ironing the blouse he had in front of him and stood the iron on the
board to let it cool. He dusted off his apron, quickly checked his cap
and petticoats in the hall mirror, then made his way quietly to the
kitchen to boil water for the tea. He was in the house alone with Mrs.
Draper that afternoon, and there was no wind or rain to mask the sound
of footsteps or creaking floorboards. The sound of someone pressing the
keys of his old piano was therefore easily recognisable, even from the
kitchen. It had been so long since Peter had heard that sound! He even
doubted it at first, but there was no question; he was hearing the
crisp, clear sound of his prized pianoforte.
The piano had been left unused ever since he'd made the unusual
decision of becoming Madam Draper's housekeeper. The same woman who
generously, keenly, took ownership of the land, estate and all of
Peter's former assets. He'd never understood finance, or so he liked to
tell himself. All the numbers fell through his mind in an illegible
jumble. He could be excused, then, the rather reckless attempt at
shunning his responsibility for his parent's former estate.
Demonstrating an embarrassing naivety and falling through an uncommon
number of legal loopholes (expertly arranged by Emily's lawyers), Peter
shed off his former privileges and took up his position as Margaret, a
modest and impeccably neat housekeeper and ladies' maid. His first
feeling in his new position was relief, an unusual lightness at no
longer having the weight of expectation on his shoulders. But reality
bit soon enough and wouldn't loosen its grip.
Peter's old and now neglected piano was a beautiful object, lacquered
mirror-black, with smooth curved lines and pearly white keys. His
Father had bought it for him on his twelfth birthday after brief
business trip to Germany. He remembered fondly the day it was brought
in by two thick-set men in shirtsleeves and hobnail boots. It stood
proudly in the centre of the drawing room, lit by a wall of enormous
windows. That room was the only room in the house he felt he could
really breathe in. It caught the sunlight in the afternoon and had been
a place of spiritual escape. He may have lived in a modest estate in
the English countryside, but as soon as the lid of the piano was open
he was transported to the great centres of European culture; Paris,
Budapest, Vienna. The piano itself had been his one truly treasured
possession. He dutifully paid it the attention it deserved, showing a
remarkable talent for the instrument, pressed on by his Mother's
encouragement.
For these reasons, and many besides, it pained him to see it left
abandoned in the months after Mrs. Draper took over the running of the
estate. The piano lid was shut at exactly the same time as his own life
was shut up within the walls of his former home. He knew Emily had
little interest in music. Her interests remained grounded in matters of
family and personal finance. She also simply wanted to be pampered, to
have a faithful servant attend to her countless whims and fancies. So,
although the piano still stood proudly in the same spot as the day it
arrived all those years ago, it would have been out of the question for
Peter to sit down and play it, even if only for a minute. He made do
with dusting it thoroughly every week, thinking of what he would not
give to play it again. He still knew some passages of Chopin, bits and
pieces that he still played through in his head as he went about his
labours, but even these were growing fainter in his memory. He had no
doubt that the former dexterity of his fingers was long gone. After
all, he'd spent the past year sewing frocks and scrubbing floors.
The sound that he heard from his piano on this day had no similarity to
the Chopin he was used to hearing. No, this was the sound of Emily
testing one key after the other in a clunky unthinking sequence. He
heard her shifting the stool, playing with the pedals. She played a
rudimentary scale up and down, then impatiently dragged her finger down
the keyboard, sounding every key on the way. He felt like a child whose
delicate doll was in the hands of an excitable younger sibling.
She was still there when he appeared with the tea. She was wearing a
close-fitting yellow day dress. As always, he was expected to smile in
her presence. This time, though, the smile was genuine; he was hearing
his piano for the first time in months.
"Where would you like the tea, Madam?" he asked, bobbing his knees.
She looked round at him standing in the door. "Just put it down on the
table by my chair Margaret," she replied, before carrying on clumsily
fingering the keys. She gave up and closed the lid, leaning on it with
her elbow, eyeing her maid as he carefully bent down to settle the tea-
tray on the table. She knew that the piano used to belong to him, but
now saw in his expression how strong that attachment really was. She
recognised instantly that his expression was no longer the tired,
ruddy-cheeked, harried look he usually wore when milling around her
house.
This intrigued her. Add to that intrigue a little boredom and all of a
sudden the idea jumped into her mind to upturn convention a little.
"You used to be a dab hand at this, didn't you?" she asked.
He was taken aback. Emily rarely acknowledged his past life. He
hesitated, making sure he'd heard correctly. "I used to play almost
every day, Madam."
"Tell me," she said, coyly, "tell me what you used to play."
He stood back from where he left the tray, brushed his apron straight
and crossed his hands. "Well Madam, I always enjoyed Chopin. He was a
favourite of my Mother's, and she encouraged me to play for her. The
Nocturnes, among other things. Although I was never skilled enough to
play as a profession. I started late, you see..."
"I wish I could play," she said, interrupting. She had crossed her
legs and was twirling her foot impatiently.
"Perhaps I could teach you?"
She laughed. "No thank you Margaret. You are a far too busy woman.
Don't let me disturb you."
"It would be no problem at all, I assure you..."
"Margaret, I said no. Thank you. I'm sure there are all sorts of things
you need to be getting on with."
"Yes Madam, I'm sorry."
"Right then," she said, before turning her back towards him.
...
After taking leave of his mistress, his day passed like any other.
Annabelle, Emily's eldest daughter, very soon returned from the village
with her children and joined her Mother for the tea. The pair wiled
away the hours while the children played at their feet.
Peter had changed into his afternoon uniform after finishing the
morning's laundry and other work in the scullery. He wore the 'nice'
petticoat, buttoned up his black dress, and then covered it all with a
full bibbed apron of white lace, with wide shoulder straps and ruffled
hem. This was a garment that he was strictly forbidden from dirtying.
Emily was particularly fond of the frilled cap, cuffs, and collar of
the serving women of those fine ladies of London high society. She was
soon after quite adamant that these feminine ornaments become a strict
part of Margaret's own livery.
Annabelle found her Mother's fussiness in this department amusing. She
remembered being fussed over constantly as a child and was relieved to
be out from under her thumb. Her Mother now had another target, someone
else to truss up and tie up with a bow. When Peter first began work as
Margaret, he found this costume embarrassingly conspicuous. Yet the
implicit proscription on discussing his past life meant that he was
saved the worst humiliations. His former identity had almost completely
slipped from public memory. He now dressed, lived, and worked as
Margaret, and answering to the name was now entirely second nature.
Dredging up his former identity now would require rooting through the
documents related to the estate's previous ownership. He would rather
just forget.
Peter, now under the weight of his elaborate, delicate maid's uniform,
returned to the drawing-room. He gave a smile to the children before
greeting Annabelle and her Mother with a curtsey.
"There will be 6 of us for dinner tonight Margaret," Emily said from
her seat. "John and Elizabeth are coming."
"I'll make sure to set places Madam."
Emily turned back to her daughter. "You know we've lived in this house
for almost a year now and I'd never paid the slightest bit of attention
to that piano." She pointed in its direction.
Annabelle looked briefly over her shoulder at the instrument. "I've
never taken you for a musician Mother," she replied.
"Well, you're right, but it's a shame to let it just sit there
gathering dust. It's quite jolly."
"Sad to let it go to waste," said Annabelle before standing up. She
walked over to the piano, stepping around her young children who were
rolling a toy train on the carpet.
Peter watched the young woman peer at and assess his former prized
possession. She looked at it not with the eyes of someone with genuine
interest in its history or sound, but someone who reduced everything to
its monetary cost, how much it might be sold for at auction. He was
surprised by how hopelessly unhappy it made him feel.
Annabelle sat at the stool in her blue patterned dress and lifted the
lid. She had such nice fingers, Peter thought. They were wasted on
someone who never sought to cultivate any musical talents. The same, he
realised, could be said about someone who gave up his musical gifts for
a life of service. A life of scrubbing pans, darning clothes and
polishing boots and floors.
To his surprise, Annabelle played a short but recognisable nursery
rhyme: 'Ring a Ring o' Roses'. The children immediately dropped what
they were doing and made their way to peer curiously up at their
Mother. She played it again, encouraging the children to sing along
with her. Emily remained seated, watching her prized grandchildren.
Before too long, Annabelle had exhausted her repertoire, and closed the
piano lid. She rejoined her Mother, leaving the children to explore the
remarkable instrument that had just been brought to their attention.
The little girl, wearing a short pink frock, stood up on the stool and
opened the lid. The boy, only a toddler, managed somehow to clamber up
onto the keys. The adult women seemed either completely oblivious to
this activity or were entirely untroubled by it. For Peter, though, it
was torture to see the muddy footprints on the stool, and the little
fingers picking at the ivory keys.
He couldn't hold himself back. He marched across the room as fast as
his skirts would allow him and grabbed the children by the wrists,
pulling them up and away from the piano. The women were mortified.
"Margaret! What on Earth are you doing!?" Emily screamed. She slapped
his wrist sharply, forcing him to let go.
Annabelle burst into tears and rushed to comfort her now wailing
children. "Margaret how could you hurt my little ones! You awful
thing!"
Peter tried to regain his composure, straightening out his apron and
skirt as he always did when he was under the eyes of his mistresses.
"I... the children... they were damaging it," he replied, recognising
precisely how pathetic he sounded.
"I don't care if they were playing in the fire!", Emily boomed, "how
dare you lay hands on the children!"
"I'm sorry Madam," he said bowing, avoiding Emily's eyes. He was also
in tears now and took himself swiftly out of the room.
The children (and adults) eventually calmed. Peter busied himself for a
few hours laying out his Mistresses' dresses and brushing them down for
the evening. He smartened up the beds and made sure the children's room
was similarly tidy.
He knew Emily's youngest daughter Elizabeth and her husband John were
joining the family for dinner and was ready to greet them when they
arrived at seven o' clock. He took their hats and coats and led them
into the dining room to join the other two ladies. The evening rolled
on as Peter expected. The adults talked, and the children peered in
from time to time, being warmly greeted by their visiting aunt and
uncle. Peter, embodying Margaret in her most impeccable form, swanned
this way and that bringing dishes and taking away dirty plates and
glasses. Elizabeth had always been a warmer personality than her older
sister or Mother, and smiled kindly at the housemaid who was working so
hard to ensure the dinner ran smoothly. Peter then prepared the drawing
room for the after-dinner drinks, readying the fire and lighting the
gas-lamps. He closed the curtains and, unable to resist, drew his hand
across the smooth piano lid, checking it was properly closed.
Annabelle went to put her children down to sleep, and Peter joined her
to prepare their nightclothes. They then returned together (Annabelle
was handed a glass of wine, Peter wasn't), and everyone made their way
into the drawing-room. It was now dark out, though the room was
perfectly warm and comfortable. Peter stood, as was expected, by the
door. The adults gathered on the chairs around the fire. Emily
requested her best brandy, and her maid dutifully retrieved it from the
hallway cabinet.
The conversation ebbed and flowed, before landing on the favoured
subject of the day. "John," Emily asked, "have you ever thought about
taking up the piano?"
John was a tall man in a smart brown suit. He wore a moustache, which
made him look much older than he was. "Ah," he replied, "you know when
I was a young lad I could hammer out a few tunes."
"He's quite good Mummy," Elizabeth added. "He's not one of these
uncultured fellows with his nose stuck in his ledger."
"Oh I didn't suggest such a thing!" Emily added. "I'm sure he's very
talented!"
"Mother 'discovered' the piano today," Annabelle interjected,
sarcastically. "It's been sitting there for months on end and then all
of a sudden she can't stop talking about it!"
"Don't be unfair dear," Emily replied. "It's a very nice piano." She
was now looking back at John. "Why don't you have a look at it?"
He peered over his shoulder at the shadowy bulk at the other end of the
room. "Can we get some light Margaret?" he asked politely.
Peter nodded and proceeded to light the gas lamp above the piano. John
sat down at it, smiling all the while. He lifted the lid, stretched his
fingers, and began to play. Peter was surprised at how confidently he
handled the finger-work. Of course the music wasn't to his taste. These
were sing-song tunes, whereas Peter always had a passion for the more
understated, classical works. Still, John played away in perfect
rhythm, now joined by the ladies, all with glasses in hand. They
inevitably started singing along and seemed to be having a jolly time
huddled around Elizabeth's husband.
"Bravo!" Annabelle declared at the end of a rousing song.
"Elizabeth you never told me John was such a maestro!" Emily said,
giddily, trying to clap with a glass of brandy in her hand.
John played his part, making a silly bowing gesture, then leant over to
kiss his wife on the cheek. "Ah I've missed that!" he said. "Father
brought one of these home when I was a lad, taught me all sorts of
songs on it."
Peter felt a pang of unease as the man laid his hands on the instrument
and felt the smooth surface, leaving fingerprints everywhere. All he
could think about was wiping off the smudges left by the man's sweaty
hands. He remembered his Mother telling him once as a boy that the oils
on one's skin can damage the wood polish...
"Well you're free to come and play it whenever you like" said
Annabelle, putting her hand on John's shoulder. "Nobody else does."
"He can have it." Emily said suddenly. "If he wants it. It's not
getting much use here. The children are too young to make use of it and
I don't want them to get their grubby hands all over it."
Peter felt like he'd been frozen in place. What on Earth was she
saying? Doesn't she understand that this is a highly valuable,
collectible piece? What is this dandy going to want with it?
"My, what a generous offer!" John said.
As the man began to inspect the piano, walking around it this way and
that, Peter couldn't help think that the man was looking a gift horse
in the mouth. Did he even know what he was looking for? Would he even
notice the fine craftsmanship on the bridge, or the intaglio lettering?
Would Emily let him just take it away, on little more than a whim, the
piano Peter had loved ever since he was a boy? Could he even bear to
think about how great a loss that would be?
Peter picked at his nails. Nobody was looking at him now. He stood
silently at the side of the room, like a ghost unable to interact with
the living. He had always hated having to wear women's corsetry, and it
was in times like this that the tightness in his chest was most
bothersome. He was on the cusp now of just throwing his cap to the
ground, ripping the apron off over his head and demanding that this
rabble leave his house... immediately! But no, there was not even a
squeak from him. He couldn't catch his breath, and besides, what,
really, would an outburst like that achieve? It wasn't his house
anymore. It wasn't even his piano, no matter how sentimental he felt
about it. If Emily wanted it gone, then he might as well say his
goodbyes now.
"It's a beautiful thing," said Elizabeth, as her husband continued to
admire it, "and there's certainly space in the lounge of the
townhouse."
"Oh Emily!" John buoyantly exclaimed, moving to kiss his Mother-in-Law
on the cheek, "you're a doll! I'd love it!"
"It's nothing!" Emily said, bashfully.
"Don't be silly," John replied, earnestly. "I'll not forget this. What
a remarkable gift."
...
The party gradually faded out, and Peter was utterly exhausted by the
time his head hit the pillow. Elizabeth and John had left, and Peter
had helped the other ladies prepare their nightwear and brought in the
bed-warmers. But he couldn't sleep. He realised that, for the past
year, it was as if he'd been sleepwalking through life. The duties of a
housemaid occupied his mind completely, and he busied himself with his
chores every hour of every day. The time was passing without him
thinking at all about how his life had been so irreparably knocked off
course. He never had time to think. Emily, Annabelle and the children
were constantly pestering him, vying for his time and forcing him this
way and that, tending to one chore or another. Now, with the evening's
events fresh in his mind, his thoughts returned again and again to the
same point. He suddenly became completely obsessed with Elizabeth's
husband, the man who was going to come back, this week or the next, and
wheel his prized piano out of the house. And where would that leave
him? If it was in the house, if he walked past it hundreds of times a
day, he could at least still pretend it was his. But he was powerless
to stop them from taking it away from him. He felt weak and completely,
utterly, stuck.
An envy of this man hit him like a fever. John was a smart and
successful businessman. He had a handsome woman on his arm, and he was
not only respected but, yes, admired! There was a time when Peter could
have aspired to such things, when he could dream about going into a
career, a profession he could be proud of. His Mother and Father had
told him time and again to study well, to dedicate himself to something
so that he might make a proper go of life! And the maddening thing was
that he did do that; he was a good, intelligent student! What had
become of this gifted creative child? He thought now about what his
life would have looked like had he not sold himself for mere pennies.
He could have continued to pursue and cultivate the talents he was born
to pursue. He would have continued with the piano and really made a
proper effort at it, an effort to master those frustrating sections of
Liszt that made him want to slam the lid shut. He could even have
fulfilled a boyhood dream of visiting Vienna, a place his Mother so
often talked about.
But he had an entirely different fate to contend with. What kind of
life was this, the one he was now living? It made him sick to think
that this is what his time on Earth had been reduced to. Bent and
broken to fit within the four walls of his former home. He now found
the house frighteningly claustrophobic, the rooms overstuffed with
tasteless trinkets and kitsch ornaments. These women hadn't felt moved
by a piece of art in their entire sad lives! And now he was the one
running around after them dusting the countless ugly things they'd
shovelled inside his former home.
Dressing as a woman didn't help. He hated his uniform. He hated the
prim lace and fussy frills of the cap and apron. The heavy dress and
restrictive underclothes were cumbersome and uncomfortable. He thought
the clothes looked utterly tacky, thoughtlessly imposed on him by a
woman desperate to keep up appearances with other unlikeable,
tasteless, boring women. These people fail to understand that one can't
buy taste!
At bottom, he just wanted to be a man again. He wanted the freedom to
stride around with his head held high. To choose how he spends his days
and what obscure little hobbies he pursues. The women in this house,
with all the glorious freedoms of wealth, dreamt of little more than
having more kids to raise, more money in their purses. It was now,
after losing everything, that he understood the value of wealth. A gift
from his parents that he'd given up frivolously. It was the key to
everything, wasn't it? To freedom and happiness, to comfort and
leisure. He now had nothing of the sort. He was now nothing more than
an accessory to a woman who took hardly the slightest interest in him.
He'd be bowing and scraping at her beck and call for the rest of his
life, and the thought of it made his stomach do somersaults.
If he only had a fifth of his former wealth he could have put a stop to
everything! He'd say no, the piano is not going anywhere! Instead of
flitting around the place catching up with every pathetic little demand
Mrs. Draper and her spoilt daughter made, he'd sit down at the piano
and listen to sweet sounds he knew it was capable of making. He'd
probably just sit on the stool in silence for an hour, enjoying the
fact that there wasn't a single voice hectoring him for being idle.
He'd probably ask for even less than that; just one solitary hour to
enjoy the piano before it was taken away from him forever.
He tossed and turned in bed for hours, juggling these thoughts. Sleep
eventually, mercifully, arrived.
...
It was two weeks on from the party when John and a group of labourers
arrived at the house. Peter met them at the door in his black dress and
the pristine whites of his apron and cap. No stranger ever thought that
he was anything but a woman. He led them up to the drawing-room. They
eyed the piano, discussed their plans, and made quick work of it. Down
the stairs it went, and out the door. While it was being loaded onto a
truck, John laughed and talked with Emily and Annabelle. He'd brought
them a bottle of fine brandy as a gift. The children played in the
grass, watching the men at work.
Emily gave her maid a disapproving look, so Peter, Margaret, hustled
herself inside. There was a mountain of laundry to be done, and
Annabelle was visiting a friend in the afternoon and needed her skirt
ironed. So, he swallowed his pride and got on with it, cramped in the
tiny laundry room at the back of the house, fussing with his
petticoats, up to his neck in lace and goffered frills, in boots that
were far too tight. He tried to remember a certain melody from a Chopin
waltz, wracking his brain for the right sequence of notes. In the end,
nothing came.
Grace
- 09.11.2020
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