Jews. That was the answer. She needed more Jewish people in her life. There. Now she had her New Year’s resolution: Make more Jewish friends. Then she’d have people to party with while the rest of the world did the Christmas thing. Perfect plan. Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and maybe some atheists. She’d get right on that.
The owner went into the back to get the guitar case. While Nora waited, she wandered. In a side room, she stopped short when she laid eyes on the most beautiful grand piano she’d ever seen. Solid black finish with gleaming golden guts on the inside.
Of course the inside of a piano wasn’t called the guts, though. What was it called? Søren would know.
“Nice, isn’t it?” The store owner had returned with the guitar case. “Imperial Bösendorfer. Fully refurbished. One owner. The wife of a Presbyterian minister.”
“Presbyterian?” she repeated. “Damn Calvinists.”
“Excuse me?” he said, clearly not understanding her.
“Never mind.” Søren was the only man she knew who, when asked what his pet peeves were, would answer Calvinism. “It’s amazing. How much is it?”
“It’s actually very reasonable. It’s on consignment and the family can’t wait to get rid of it. Forty-five. Delivery and tuning included.”
Nora’s knees buckled at the figure. “Forty-five thousand?”
“I know,” the owner said, shaking his head. “It’s a steal. A new one would run you eighty.”
“Little out of my price range, I’m afraid.” She had enough money for the piano, but just barely. She also had a mortgage, a roommate to feed, and the dream of giving up work with Kingsley to write full-time. If she dropped forty-five thousand dollars on a piano, she and Wes would be eating ramen noodles for the next year. Either that or she’d better get a big fucking book deal real fucking fast.
“You should play it at least. A piano wants to be played.”
Nora reached out and touched the keys without depressing them.
“No, I don’t play. I have a...” She paused, searching for the right word. “A friend. He plays beautifully. Learned it from his mother and then mostly self-taught. One of those prodigy types.”
“Professional?”
“Actually, he’s a Jesuit priest. He plays with the symphony sometimes if they need him. He has a Steinway, but, well, it’s kind of broken.”
“Such a shame.”
“Just the sustain pedal. Long story. Do you play?” Nora asked. She was dying to hear the sound of the Bösendorfer. Some of her happiest memories involved Søren and pianos.
“Not much anymore. But I have my own personal pianist I keep around here. Isaiah?” He called out the name, and a boy of about twelve came running from the other room.
“I’m here!” Isaiah announced, his voice so loud the keys of the piano vibrated.
“Isaiah takes lessons here,” the owner explained. “His family’s apartment’s not big enough for a piano. I let him come practice here whenever he likes.”
“Nice to meet you.” Nora held out her hand and Isaiah only stared at it. “Don’t be scared. I know strange white ladies are terrifying, but I won’t bite you. Probably not, anyway.”
The boy grinned broadly and held out his hand. She shook it with vigor.
“Good handshake,” she said. “Strong hands make for a better pianist. Will you play something for me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with gusto as he threw himself down onto the piano bench. He cracked his neck and knuckles and wiggled his fingers over the keys. “Any requests?”
“Play a Christmas song,” Nora suggested. “Any one you like.”
“I like ’em all. But I just learned this one.”
He inhaled and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the blustery boy had transformed into a professional musician. He brought his fingers down onto the keys. The familiar haunting strains of “O Holy Night” filled the store.
The piece brought back a thousand memories. How she loved this song...how much it moved her every time she heard it...how she couldn’t hear it without wanting to fall onto her knees and adore the God who had created men and music.
How old had she been? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? One night in early December, she’d gone to the rectory at midnight and found Søren at the piano playing this very piece…
He knew she was coming to him that night, and he knew the song was her favorite. As he played, she came to him and sat on the floor next to the piano bench, resting her head by his thigh. As the last notes rang out and died, he had laid a hand gently on the side of her head. Without a word he bade her to stand. He didn’t need words to give her orders. She could read his face, his eyes, his body language like a book. He snapped his fingers, and she reached under her skirt to pull off her panties. Søren lowered the fallboard to cover the keys as she straddled his lap and leaned back against the piano. They kissed, tongues and lips mingling, for what felt like an hour. She ran her fingers through his blond hair. He slid his hands up and down her thighs.
“Please, Sir,” she whispered against his neck.
“Please what?”
She growled in playful frustration. He hadn’t hurt her yet. They’d done nothing but kiss. As long as he didn’t hurt her, he could kiss her and tease her and taunt her and touch her forever without needing to fuck her. It wasn’t until he inflicted pain on her that he grew aroused enough that he had to have her. But she...she had to have him, and right now.
“Please...I need you inside me, Sir.”
“Keep begging. It’s under consideration.”
He kissed her earlobe, her neck. He opened her blouse and kissed the swell of her breasts. And so she begged him as instructed. Please, Sir...please... I’ll do anything, submit to anything, give you anything, accept anything... Use me, abuse me, bruise me, she begged him in a poem of desperation.
When his teeth bit into the soft flesh of her shoulder, she knew it would happen. She gasped in pain as his previously gentle fingers dug into her hips hard enough she flinched.
The flinch did it. Seconds later, the piano bench sat toppled on the floor. Nora—then still “Eleanor”—lay on her stomach on the floor halfway under the piano. She braced herself with slow deep breaths and wasn’t shocked when Søren pulled her shirt off and pushed her skirt to her waist. He landed the first brutal blow on the back of her thighs. She didn’t look at what instrument of torture Søren wielded on her. Cane or crop or switch from a tree, it didn’t matter. They all hurt like fuck.
Good. The greater the pain now, the greater the pleasure after.
After a dozen or more brutal blows to the back of her body, Søren dropped a crop onto the floor. It hit the hardwood with a softer sort of thud instead of a rattle of rattan. She braced herself for more pain. He might flog her next or whip her. She closed her eyes and let go of herself and any fears. No reason to be afraid. Søren loved her. He’d hurt her, but he would never harm her. He took more pleasure from inflicting pain than she took from an orgasm. She gave up her body to him, gave it up like a gift. And like a present, wrapped and given, he tore her open.