From: misslilyo@aol.com Subject: New Story: MELTDOWN IN E-FLAT by MissLilyO (M/F, cons) Date: 20 Nov 1996 22:36:29 GMT Hi, guys. This is a story I've been trying to write for a long time, and finally got it pared down enough to send it out the door. Hope you like it. It is not for 18 and under, but then you knew that, didn't you? It contains consentual spanky, no panky, but maybe a little hanky. Love, Lily ______________________________ MELTDOWN IN E-FLAT by MissLilyO She did not so much enter the building as she did attack it, a one-woman assault force pushing forcefully through the press of joking, jostling students spilling out of the doors of the school. Had she not been so intent on her mission, she might have noticed that these students had one identifying feature that set them apart from other young people in this run-down neighborhood. They were wearing the unmistakable expression of children who have hope, kids who can see the future and know there is a place for them in it. She strode toward the Office of the Administrator of the Walden Academy of Musical Arts, not bothering to mask her look of irritation. Her plane had been delayed by four hours, one of them after she was aboard, stuck next to an obnoxious salesman, a man with garlic breath and the firm conviction that she wanted to hear all about his hernia surgery and bowling scores. She couldn't get a shuttle to her hotel and had to take an expensive cab ride with a driver whose unpronounceable name had to mean "Surly One" in his native language. The bellman dropped her laptop off the cart in the hotel and it wouldn't boot up. Although the hotel assured her of a full replacement, she felt like her lifeline to the Foundation was cut off without it. She was six hours late in arriving at her appointment at the school. When she found the office of Mrs. Marston, the school's administrator, the tall woman was just locking her door. "Miss Taylor," the older woman said, extending her hand, "I'm Keesha Marston. I expected you much earlier today." "I'm very glad to meet you, Mrs. Marston," Serena replied somewhat stiffly. "I apologize. My plane was delayed and your phone was busy when I tried to call." "Yes, there was a problem with the phone lines until about two hours ago." Mrs. Marston was striking, her height adding to her regal bearing. Her short-cropped Afro had streaks of white in it, though her high cheekboned face was ageless. "I'm afraid I can't stay to work with you this evening," she said, apologetically. "I have a speaking engagement at the neighborhood center tonight. Some of the folks are going to help us repair our fence." Serena said, a trifle too abruptly, "I really don't need you here, Mrs. Marston, to do what I have to do. I trust you have the books and records ready I requested in my memo?" Then, seeing the other woman's eyebrow raise a little at her tone, she said more conversationally, "I mean, I could get started on my initial audit examination if you could lend me a little space with a table and chair." Keesha Marston felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she reopened her office and pointed at the stack of files on her secretary's desk. She knew that Serena Taylor had a reputation for being a "grant buster" and had come to take a hard look at whether the school would continue to be supported by the Foundation for another three years or not. She had wanted to be nearby to explain some of the expenses the school incurred, and to put a spin on the figures that looking at neat printouts and spreadsheets simply could not do. But with the auditor's untimely arrival and pushy manner, she could see little choice but to comply with the request and let her start in on the books right away. Perhaps there would be a chance to salvage things in the morning. "You can use the room right next door. Come on, I'll help you carry the files. There's a calculator and a phone. The girls' bathroom is just three doors down. Two of the teachers are still here with students and the janitor will let you out when you're ready to leave. I hope you brought an umbrella, because the weather is threatening a terrible downpour later tonight." The room was spartan, a fact Serena approved. She could not abide extravagance in the furnishings of a grant recipient's building. "I'm sure I'll be quite comfortable, thank you. If I have any questions, I'll ask you in the morning," she said dismissively. If Mrs. Marston was offended by the younger woman's officious manner, she gave no sign, but merely nodded and extended her hand. "Nice meeting you, Ms. Taylor. I'll be here at 7 in the morning." Two hours later, Serena was speaking crisply into a micro- recorder, dictating a memo that her secretary would have to transcribe the old fashioned way, since she was without her laptop. "...and it is my recommendation that all support be withdrawn from the school. My reasons are as follows..." And she enumerated instances of monies she felt had been spent on needless things, like a $1,500 bill to Safeway Stores. It was clear that the school had been hosting parties on Foundation money. ********** It takes a very long time for a glacier to form, and the devastation in its path is inexorable. It had taken a long time for Serena's heart to freeze as well, and the destruction was as complete as the aftermath of any glacial march. When her mother had died, Serena had been eight, and her father had become her whole world. His death when she was barely twenty left her feeling abandoned, without a focus. She was drawn into a marriage to a self-destructive alcoholic, and the collapse of that union left her as barren as a tundra. Feeling very much the failure, and believing herself to be utterly alone in the world, she plunged her energies into her job at the Foundation. At the tender age of 32, she was appointed head of the Accounting Division. Her cold objectivity proved an asset when the time came to decide where the Foundation's money would be spent and she became the Ice Queen of legend, cutting off the dollars to laboratories, schools and other non-profit groups when she felt they were wasteful with their funds or that their very existence had no real value. As she was listing her reasons for discontinuing funds for the Walden Academy in her usual concise way, she caught the strains of music from somewhere nearby. It was so arresting that she clicked the pause button on the recorder and stepped out into the hall to investigate. A capella male voices were singing Hoagy Carmichael's "Stardust." The compelling strains were coming from behind a set of double doors, and she was drawn there by the the sound. The voices blended perfectly, four part harmony so in synch that even the vibratos started at the same moment on the sustains. It was Stardust as it had never been heard before, the same dreamy melody and sweet words, but punctuated with a unique back beat subtly insinuated by the syncopated phrasing. It was old, it was new, it was indescribably haunting, and she stood mesmerized. She could see them through the small window in the door, four black teenagers, dressed in the awful baggy shorts and droop sweatshirts that were de rigeur for kids in every town in America. One boy had his hair in dreadlocks, and the other three wore their hair short, at least she guessed so, finding it hard to tell because of the baseball caps worn backward on their heads. A short blond teacher sat enraptured as the boys sang, occasionally lifting his outstretched hands to urge dynamics, but mostly letting them take the music where they would. "If the angels sang doo-wop, they'd definitely be jealous of those kids, don't you think?" a voice said right behind her. Serena jumped half out of her skin and let out a yelp. "Oh! Sorry, Miss. I didn't mean to startle you." She whirled angrily on the intruder, and saw an old man standing there wearing a pair of worn tweed trousers held up by red suspenders, a white shirt, and an old fashioned bow tie. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" she demanded. "You should know better than to go sneaking up on a person like that!" He looked harmless enough and she didn't really feel she was in any danger. In fact, the old man had such kindly eyes that under different circumstances she might even have been very drawn to him. "Yes, yes, you're quite right, my dear," he chuckled. "I get so used to moving around these halls, I don't realize I might give somebody a start!" "What are you, the janitor?" she asked. "Oh, I do a little of this and a little of that," he replied, smiling at her from behind old-fashioned wire-framed spectacles. "I guess you could say I keep an eye on the place. Been here for years." "Yes, well..." she said, not really knowing what else to say to this kindly-looking gentleman who was looking at her in the oddest fashion. "I'll just be getting back to work." The boys hadn't heard the little set-to in the hallway and they moved easily into a version of Blue Moon, the bass singing a clever counterpoint to the other three voices. "Aren't they just heavenly?" he sighed again, with a nod of his head toward the doors. "They are so talented. And the school will give them a start down the road to making something of their talent." "You'll excuse me, I'm sure," she said curtly, not wishing to let the thought of these gifted students losing their chance in life intrude on the hard facts of a school that had been operating in the red. "I have work to do." She started back for her office, not realizing that the old man was right on her heels. As she opened the door, she saw that he was standing beside her, still smiling benignly at her. "Is there something else you wanted, Mr. uh...? she asked him. "Pop. Just call me Pop. That's what everybody has always called me." "Fine, Pop. I am going to get back go work now, if you'll excuse me." "Oh sure. Go ahead and go back to work, but I gotta tell you, I couldn't help overhearing you dictating that memo and I think you're making an awful mistake, Missy." She was so taken aback she hardly knew what to say. She had certainly not been aware anyone had been listening to her dictation, thinking herself to be alone. Further, she was not used to being questioned by the maintenance man over her judgments on behalf of the Foundation. That was usually reserved for the administrators and staff--they always howled when she cut off their funds, although it never did any good. When she made up her mind, the determination that was a part of her character made her stand firm. "That's certainly not any of your business, Pop! I have a business decision to make here, and sentiment and emotion have no part in sound fiscal planning." "Now that's where you're wrong, dear," he said gently. "It has everything to do with it. This school isn't about dollars and cents, it's about children--kids who, because of the existence of this school, will have a chance to escape this neighborhood where hopelessness is a lifelong companion, at least for those who don't catch a stray bullet in a drive-by shooting." She started to cut him off impatiently, but he held up a hand to silence her. Something about his demeanor made her shut her mouth and let him continue. He took her arm and walked with her down the empty hall ways, pointing out classrooms and practice rooms, telling her the success stories of the kids who had come to this school. In that stroll, she found out about the food bill at the grocery store. They were FEEDING some of these kids, the hungry ones who otherwise wouldn't have a square meal each day. She found herself being drawn into his stories, some dating well back, and she realized he was much older than he'd first appeared to her. Music was the food for the soul and these children had found nourishment here, he had told her. Names of the kids came readily to his lips, and he spoke of each one with such fondness that she felt she'd known them too. At last they were back at the little office she was using, and he followed her inside. It had been so long since she'd felt any trace of her own humanity that it was rusty, like old parts in need of oil. The old man was good, she'd give him that. She'd been pitched by the best of them, and his story was the first one that ever made her think she ought to reconsider her decision. Once she spotted the books stacked up on the desk, however, her steely resolve returned and she told him, more coldly than she'd meant to, that she was going to stick to her guns and recommend the grant be discontinued. Pop looked at her kindly and said, "You know, Serena, your Dad would be very, very disappointed in you right this minute." She felt like he'd physically slammed her with a bat. "W-what did you say? How do you know my name? Did you know my father?" "Oh, I know Jack Taylor very well, indeed, my dear. You are the apple of his eye, but then you know that. He would feel very badly if he knew that he'd failed to teach you anything about loving others." "What's this supposed to mean?" she demanded harshly. "You don't know my Dad. He's been dead for.." "..twelve years," he finished for her. "Yes, I know. Cancer. He died October 2, a Saturday it was, at Mercy Hospital." "But, but you weren't at the funeral, were you? I mean, I don't remember you." "No, I wasn't at the funeral. But that doesn't change the fact of my friendship with your father, Serena. And I know your Dad is one of the finest men who ever lived. He called you 'kitten' when you were young, and he took you often up to your place on North Lake and taught you to fish. Told me all about it, he did. He was so proud of his little kitten." Serena had begun to tear up at the mention of her Dad's pet name for her. She hadn't managed to quell the huge ache in her heart after all, despite her aura of toughness. "I remember Jack telling about a time when you were very mean to a little neighbor boy. You were bigger than he was and you pushed him down and took his skateboard and hid it, just to show off to your friends..." And with those words, he took her back to her childhood where she had been loved, cherished, and corrected by her dad with the occasional bare-bottomed spanking till she cried her heart out and received his all-encompassing forgiveness. Her cheeks stained crimson with the rush of memories his words had brought and she sat on the edge of the desk to steady herself. My God, had she forgotten all that? How could HE know all that? She was even more shaken when he gently took one of her hands in his. "Serena, dear, do you know what your dad would do if he were here with you right this minute?" Lamely she nodded. Pulling a straight-backed chair from the desk Pop sat down and patted his knee. "Come, dear. This is what you want and need." Suddenly she was a little girl again, the years of pain and loneliness swept away. Mutely, she took her place over his knee, lifting obediently for him as he eased her skirt out of the way and began the slide of her panties down her taut thighs. Here she was, the lion of the Foundation, mewling like a helpless kitten, bare bottom turned up for a little-girl spanking. Pop did not prolong her anticipation, but rubbed and soothed her until he saw her unclench. He lifted his hand and brought it stinging down on her white bottom. And again. She was surprised at the intensity of the sting he caused on her tender flesh, and soon was whimpering as he picked up the pace and power of the spanking. As the spanking heated up, it felt to Serena as if the block of ice that had sealed her heart from the world began to melt, running away from her soul in icy rivulets. And still Pop spanked on. Soon she was sobbing, begging him to stop, promising to be a good girl; in effect, she was promising to rejoin the human race. Pop did not quit until he had pushed well beyond the threshold and had reached her very core. Only then did he stop the spanking, rubbing her bottom again, soothing her. "Shhhh. There, there, dear. It's all over." He helped her to get up and reached for tissues, drying her tears while she sniffled and hiccuped. All the while, he whispered reassurances to her. "There, now, honey, it's all right. You've been away a long time, haven't you? You're going to be all right, I promise. You *are* a good girl, dear. Now you must begin to believe that too." He helped Serena pull up her panties and rearrange her clothing just as the four youths came spilling out of the music room, laughing and joking. Gingerly, Serena sat down at the desk as outside her door the kids burst spontaneously into a doo wop song in their flawless harmony, the notes following them out of the building into the darkness and danger of the night streets. Serena put her weary head down on the desk, feeling for the first time in years completely at peace with herself. "Pop, I...I don't know what to say...I..." She looked up, but he had gone, leaving her to sort out her confused thoughts. It was a surprised Mrs. Marston who found her asleep, head down on the desk. Serena started with a little gasp when her shoulder was shaken, and groaned at the stiffness in her neck. "You spent the night here?" asked Mrs. Marston. "Yeah," said Serena ruefully, "I didn't mean to, but I guess I fell asleep." She shifted her shoulders trying to work out the kinks. "Well, why don't you come into my office, dear, and I'll give you some coffee. Bill Jenks brought some muffins too." Serena gratefully followed the school administrator into her office and sank into a comfortable chair opposite Keesha Marston. The coffee helped to clear away the cobwebs, and as she shifted in the chair, the stinging of her bottom reminded her of the events of the preceding evening. At last, Mrs. Marston could stand the suspense no longer. "Look, Ms. Taylor..." she began. "Please, call me Serena. I'm very sorry for being so rude to you yesterday, Mrs. Marston." "Keesha." "Keesha, then. Anyway, I had had a very bad day and I took it out on you. I apologize." Keesha's beautiful smile was her answer. "So...Serena...tell me. I can't handle the waiting. Does Walden Academy have its funding or not?" Nothing but her tightly clasped hands gave away the older woman's tension as she awaited the pronouncement of the school's fate. "Yes, Keesha. You shall have your funding. And I think the Foundation could well add to your grant for this next term to enable you to expand your lunch program for the students who need it." Unexpectedly, Keesha Marston dropped all pretense of dignity and jumped to her feet doing a little victory dance. "YESSSSS!!" she cried with heartfelt joy. Her smile was brilliant. "God, you don't know what this means! I mean, I was so sure yesterday that you...well, never mind! I'm just so thrilled." She made an attempt to collect herself. "What made you decide, if you don't mind my asking?" "Oh, I had a little chat with the janitor last night," Serena said. "He gave me something to think about." "The janitor?" Mrs. Marston echoed, baffled. Old Pete was hardly the chatty type, preferring to stay to himself till the kids had gone for the night. "Say," Serena interrupted her. "Wh-who's that?" She was staring at a painting of Pop above Mrs. Marston's desk. He looked just the same as he had last night, except that he was wearing a brown tweed jacket over his white shirt. "Why do you have a picture of the janitor over your desk?" Turning in her seat, Mrs. Marston's eyebrows shot up. "What? Why, honey, that's not the janitor. That's Percy Walden, the founder of this school. He was a musician and composer who gave up a promising career in order to teach." Mrs. Marston smiled up at the portrait. "All the kids called him Pop. You know, I miss him still, even though he's been dead for over twenty years. He was a wonderful man, and a fine, fine musician. Pop loved the children and gave so many of them a fighting chance in this old world, me included." Serena felt herself blanch, clutching her coffee as if it were a lifeline. Her startled mind was struggling to grasp Mrs. Marston's words. Suddenly she was overcome with a sense of peace and warmth and well being. She had felt nothing like it since her father had held her on his lap, rocking her and whispering words of love and support in her ear. Even years later, there would be no doubt in Serena's mind that her father had been near her in that moment, reassuring and comforting her. Serena quickly concluded her visit at the Walden Academy, feeling more alive than she had in so very long. Mrs. Marston walked her to the door, thanking her profusely for her decision to help the school. As Serena stepped outside, a melody followed her, lyrical and sweet. "What is that piece?" Serena asked. Mrs. Marston cocked her head to one side listening with obvious pride to the second-year orchestra. "It's one of Pop's own tunes. 'Etude for An Angel in E-Flat.' " Serena turned back for one last look at the school as she climbed into the cab. She suddenly laughed with delight and called out, "Tell Dad hello, Pop!" The old man in the red suspenders gave her a jaunty wave as the taxi sped away. MissLilyO@aol.com)