The past is not a foreign country, as Hartley had it, but something visceral, real, and alive in us all. Our past permeates the deepest reaches of our subconscious minds, shaping our responses, informing our attitudes, and influencing our relationships, often in ways we do not realise and can barely comprehend.

For those with a virtuous past, the rewards are paid down over time. To them comes restful sleep, trusting, fulfilling relationships, and the prerogative to condemn others, to which they believe their moral piety has entitled them. But for those of us on the other side of the ledger, our lives gradually descend into self-loathing, denial, and guilt, all of which we have earned through our thoughtless, feckless, and self-centred actions.

It is uncommon for a man to escape the vortex of despair his dark past thrusts him into. Some find solace in the Twelve Steps, others through religious conversion, but even then, their guilt plagues them, leaving them half the men they were and with their vilest appetites stilled but never satisfied.

I could have become one of these wretched characters, forever living my life on a knife edge, just one vulnerable young virgin away from my reputation slowly unravelling amid lurid allegations and formal college enquiries. But, through the guidance of a mentor, much wiser and more virtuous than myself, I found a way not only to quell my urges but to replace them with something more fitting for a man with my sickening dispositions and odious tastes.

My mentor will not allow me to shut out my past, just as the women forced to live with the consequences of my pride, lust, and myriad perversions will forever remember their corruption and degradation at my hands. To them, the past brought abandonment, humiliation, and despair, and my mentor has forced me to take responsibility for their tribulations as a step towards atoning for the pain and suffering I wrought upon them.

Often, their faces rise from the deepest recesses of my mind, the living embodiments of my tortured conscience and silent reminders of my degeneracy. Memories of their warm, young bodies as they willingly gave themselves up to me, their minds filled with fanciful romantic notions I did little to assuage, sometimes come to me in the night. But now, with the memories comes the disgust, revulsion, and shame that should have informed my actions at the time, and such thoughts frequently make my stomach heave. 

Most suspended their studies, confining themselves at home until after giving birth to their child, but none ever returned, their reputations and musical careers already in ruins. Only one woman stayed, spending the entire nine months of her pregnancy at college. When the time came for her to deliver my child, she did so without any embarrassing revelations concerning the paternity of the infant. Neither did she make one of these tiresome and futile complaints to the college authorities, realising that the word of a long-serving tutor carried much more weight than her own.

Instead, she forced me to accept responsibility for my misdeeds in a different way. She compelled me, initially under considerable duress, to embark upon a corrective programme that would subsequently protect the honour of vulnerable students while cleansing my blackened soul of the many iniquities I had inflicted upon her and many others.

However, having now received her generous instruction for some considerable time, I cannot adequately express my gratitude for all that she continues to teach me. Aside from granting me the self-awareness and self-knowledge I so long lacked, she has taught me that through discipline and training, sexual satisfaction of a higher kind can be achieved. She has opened my eyes to the gratification derived from asceticism, mortification, and pain, and to her, I owe everything I hold dear.

My mentor’s name is Shivani.

**********

I stepped into the long, empty corridor and swung the oak front door shut behind me. The building was illuminated by large church candles evenly spaced along the wooden floor, a path of light guiding my ungodly soul toward redemption. Their flickering wicks and dancing shadows afforded the familiar building an ethereal, mystical glow, reburnishing its faded glory, bringing to life its tired walls, awakening its rich and opulent past.

Debussy’s ‘Claire de Lune’ came to me through the cool night air, becoming increasingly distinct with each step I took along the ill-lit passageway. Shivani’s ability to recite the piece with the melancholic pathos and exquisite timing it merited was unequalled, and I recalled the occasion when I sat, enraptured at the poise and grace of the young woman as she performed her prodigious interpretation for the first time.

Maybe it was the look of naivety and innocence on her young face that day that initially awakened my darker nature, or perhaps I simply wanted to make such an incomparable talent my own; to seize it, twist it, and corrupt it as I had corrupted my own gifts, denying her the opportunity to go the places my talent should have taken me. It matters little now, time rendering my selfish motivations inconsequential in the light of my subsequent, far-reaching, and inexcusable actions.

When I reached the end of the corridor, the door to the concert hall was open, its vast, empty expanse lit only by a single candelabrum on the grand piano where she played. I stood in the candlelit doorway, once more appreciating her timeless radiance, captivating beauty, and phenomenal talent as she filled the domed edifice with her music.

Initially oblivious to my presence, Shivani’s body swayed softly to the gentle andante, her mind and soul seemingly consumed by the notes that flowed effortlessly from her lithe, deft fingertips. Her mane of raven hair gave way to a dark brow furrowed, deep in contemplation, and eyes closed as if in prayer. In these brief moments, she appeared to me as once she had: innocent, unsullied, and alive.

But having played the concluding bars, she paused as the instrument’s reverberations faded, her fingers hovering over the ivory as if resentful of their sudden redundancy. And, as she opened her eyes, her expression became troubled, like that of a child awakening in an unfamiliar room, uncertain and disoriented amidst strange and anomalous surroundings.

I allowed her a moment to compose herself before gently coughing into my fist, thus releasing her from her abstraction and alerting her to my unwelcome presence.

Shivani looked down at me from the stage, but not as once she had. The same dark eyes were now altered, devoid of the joy, gratitude, and passion that had once burned fiercely within them, and as she slowly closed the piano’s fallboard and rose from her stool, I recalled that, only two years earlier, she would have rushed across the room to greet me, wrapping her arms around me at the conclusion of such a flawless recital.

Instead, as she descended the stage and slowly walked towards me, her heels the only sound to pierce the forbidding silence, her face revealed a contempt born of bitterness, anger, and betrayal; it was an expression devoid of empathy and comfort, a look that spoke only of violent retribution.

As she approached, I did not drop my head in shame as I longed to, and our eyes met. In forcing myself to receive her mordant gaze, I made her sorrow, hurt, and loathing my own, acknowledging culpability for my many transgressions and welcoming the penance I knew would follow. Only by taking on her injustices and living the ordeal my wickedness had put her through could I ever hope to receive the absolution for which my soul yearned. Guilt was the legacy of my actions, and restitution the cause by which she had summoned me.

She did not speak. We never spoke, not any longer. Instead, she stood in front of me, raised my chin with one finger, and delivered a withering slap to my left cheek.

I expected the blow - our lessons had all begun the same way - but it did not make the pain burn any less fiercely. I could never be sure whether Shivani intended her blows as a greeting or a challenge, although I suspected it was simply a need to dish out in hot blood what she would soon serve over ice.

Satisfied at my evident discomfort, she turned and walked back towards the stage, knowing that I would obediently follow.

Shivani ascended the stairs, her long black satin gown billowing above black stiletto heels. She silently bid me drag the long duet piano stool to the centre of the stage, and having done so, I stood beside it as she walked to the wings. Presently, I became bathed in the beam of a solitary spotlight, its intensity rendering all but my immediate surroundings a darkened abyss.

Shivani slowly emerged from blackness into the brilliant pool of light. We stood, our eyes locked in a bitter duel of admiration and enmity, until remorse compelled my gaze to the floor. She sneered as she returned to the piano, removed her satin gown, and picked up a riding crop from the music stand.

When she returned to the full glare of the spotlight, Shivani allowed me a moment to appreciate her exotic, forbidden allure. Her black studded leather corset framed the glory of her full, dusky breasts. Slender, bronze thighs met long boots in a tender embrace of fire and ice, and studded black leather panties concealed the twin prey of my erstwhile lust.

Then, riding crop over her shoulder, Shivani drew her eyes downwards towards my clothing, returning them to my gaze before raising her eyebrows and tilting her head impatiently.

She remained in the shadows as I stripped, circling me unseen in the velvet black, the sound of her footsteps on the stage floor an ever-present reminder of my changed circumstances. Once, I had been her teacher, her superior in both rank and musical dexterity. Now, there could be no doubt who held the advantage, and the reversal in our fortunes would soon be laid bare as she once more taught me the three salutary lessons I had been summoned to receive.

First, Shivani would deliver my chastisement: the atonement for my many selfish and unnatural acts and the necessary redress for the heartache my unfeeling actions had caused. She would carry it out with the same callous disregard for my welfare as I had shown for her and her child and inflict as much pain as she considered commensurate to her distress.

Next, my mortification would begin, ensuring that should my libido guide me toward future temptations, my corporeal form would be incapable of satisfying my vile compulsions. Shivani would ensure that even masturbation would cause me such discomfort that self-pleasure would become anathema to me, and the only satisfaction I would gain would be the restorative justice my suffering afforded her.

Finally, my humiliation would subdue the pride and self-regard that had caused me to think that an unworthy creature such as myself could ever steal the affections of the much younger woman. She would leave me feeling worthless and used, as I had done her, alive to my moral cowardice and with a renewed appreciation of the sense of duty a tutor should bestow upon his students.

Once undressed, I automatically took up my position: lying prone along the length of the piano stool, my hands gripping its legs and my hips pivoting to expose my buttocks to her notional mercy. Opening my legs wide, I awaited the gentle caress of the crop’s leather keeper on my semi-erect shaft and tightening sack. Shivani liked to ensure I remained aroused throughout, becoming increasingly desperate for a release I did not deserve and knew would never come.

As she stood behind me and began rubbing the leather keeper up my stiffening shaft, I could not help but recall the time Shivani’s tongue had first performed the same service, her dark, innocent eyes looking to mine for reassurance and approval but finding none. How those eyes had wept as she later took me deep into her throat, the bile rising with each of my frenzied thrusts as I pushed her to the limits of her endurance and consciousness.

The memory brought life to my intromittent organ and, with it, the stark realisation that my re-education and cognitive realignment were far from complete.

With my erection pressing hard on the stool’s mahogany frame, Shivani moved to my left-hand side, dragging the tip of the crop up my cleft to the small of my back. I knew there would be no warning as to where and when the first blow would fall, and I closed my legs and tensed my cheeks in anticipation. I could have looked sideways, bracing myself as I watched Shivani’s arm slam downward, but the first stroke always had the greatest impact when received unheralded, so I averted my eyes, welcoming the shock and searing pain as a necessary part of my correction.

The blow fell on the crease between my buttocks and upper thighs, a particularly tender spot relatively free of scar tissue. Shivani knew her instrument well and would use the crop to conduct a symphony of pain, taking me through three movements of varied tempos and intensities towards the elation of the Finale. By then, my weals and stripes would be inured to further torment, my body conditioned for its forthcoming mortification, and my mind at peace in the knowledge that necessary redress had been made.

As my anguish continued, I took comfort in the sound of Shivani’s exertions in the pauses between her many strokes. I fondly recalled hearing the same heavy breaths each time I had extracted myself from her defiled and flooded body, her joy at gaining my approval and naive ignorance of the likely repercussions only heightening my post-coital euphoria as I watched my fluids flowing liberally from her tawny depths.

But each time she raised her arm to strike, the look of rage in her eyes brought back to me the extent of her fury when, upon making me aware of her condition, she had clawed at my face, horrified at my deceit and casual abandonment of her and her unborn child. My callous actions now caused me heartfelt remorse, and I welcomed each subsequent stripe and embraced the venom behind their ferocious delivery.

Eventually, with my buttocks blistered and raw, the crop lost its sting, and Shivani stopped, seemingly satisfied that sufficient redress had been made. Afterward, I would look in the mirror to see the kaleidoscope of reds, blacks, and purples my cheeks had become and wonder at my ability to take such punishment. But at the time, I simply experienced the high that came from completing my chastisement and the satisfaction that I had taken my punishment in the relative silence Shivani demanded.

Again, I felt the gentle tickle of the crop’s keeper on my shaft and sack as she rubbed me back to full turgidity. I knew that once hard, my mortification would begin, and I took a moment to enjoy the welcome respite as my member straightened and my balls heaved inside their weighty sack.

With my potency restored, Shivani walked to the piano, returned the crop to the music stand, and opened the fallboard. I rose and slowly followed, apprehensive but keen that the second and most challenging of my three lessons should be over as quickly as possible.

Shivani did not need to instruct me. I immediately reverted to the position I had assumed many times before—standing at the piano with my legs spread wide, my hands gripping the action frame, my scrotum resting on the key slip, and my member on the middle C key. Shivani looked on from the side, ensuring everything was to her satisfaction, then having allowed me a few moments to close my eyes, breathe deeply, and brace myself for what was to come, a firm flick of her fingers was enough to bring the fallboard crashing down.

A large bang reverberated around the hall, followed by the discordant chaos of eighty-eight piano strings sounding simultaneously. As Shivani gently pressed on the fallboard, denying me the opportunity to extricate myself, the echoes were joined by the screams of a man at one with every ounce of the pain and distress he had once brought his victims.

Shivani opened the fallboard and dispassionately watched as I sank to the floor, writhing in pain as my hands sought to bring succour to my throbbing genitals. For a moment, I couldn’t catch my breath as an intense feeling of nausea built in the pit of my stomach. I lay, eyes wide and mouth open, desperate to keep the sickness down; Shivani slowly circled me, her heels gently clicking on the wooden stage floor.

It took several minutes for the edge to leave my pain. However, once I had recovered sufficiently to take in my surroundings again, I realised Shivani was standing over me, one hand on her hip, a leather collar in the other hand, and a long, thick strap-on phallus protruding from the front of her leather panties.

I wasn’t yet ready to receive my humiliation, but I knew all too well what it would involve. First, Shivani would attach the collar to my neck; a symbolic reminder that my bestial nature must be tamed and a practical tool to assist in my defilement.

Then, she would invite me to prepare the instrument of my degradation, allowing me nothing more than saliva to ease its entry, just as I had denied her the use of anything more each time I had thrust myself into her, convincing her that the act was a natural part of our lovemaking and that the pain she felt was a result of her own deficiencies.

Finally, she would lead me to the piano stool, forcing me to kneel before replicating the degradation I had subjected her to on so many rueful occasions.

Eventually, with the nausea in my stomach much eased and the pain in my genitals sufficiently reduced that I could move, I knelt, head bowed before Shivani. I would have liked to have believed that my fortitude had garnered her approval or even her respect, but if that were so, she did not display any evidence of it. But had I developed misguided feelings of pride or self-worth at my stoicism, what she would do next would soon disavail me of such conceits.

Having attached the collar loosely around my neck, Shivani put her fingertips under my chin and drew my head level. She slowly bent at the waist, allowing her inviting, swollen breasts to fill my eye line, and then she pushed my chin upwards to meet her gaze before spitting in my face, the sign that my final punishment was about to begin.

No amount of saliva could adequately palliate the discomfort as Shivani slowly but firmly thrust the phallus into my burning depths, my body’s instinctive resistance to its intrusion only heightening my vexation. I had long since learned that by relaxing and allowing my debasement to unfold, the pain would be lessened, yet my orifice seemed unwilling to heed my inward plea until I had experienced the same distress I had inflicted on others.

And even as the pain of her penetration eased, the increased depth and cadence of Shivani’s thrusts meant the studded leather of her panties began to pound my blistered buttocks with each deep, firm thrust. And sometimes, she would increase my torment further, feverishly raking the skin on my back with her fingernails as she ravaged my burning cheeks.

Eventually, Shivani gripped my collar with both hands, pulling me semi-upright, and I knew that my final humiliation was about to unfold. Now, each of her deep thrusts grazed my throbbing prostate, and I soon felt my balls ache inside their blackened sack as my body prepared to expel its repulsive seed. I felt my bruised, flaccid member fill with fluid, and after several more violent thrusts from Shivani, I weakly dribbled the contents of my scrotum onto the leather cushion of the piano stool.

As Shivani roughly withdrew, I looked at the pool of semen on the black leather stool and began to weep. Whether they were tears of frustration at my ruined orgasm, tears of remorse at my past atrocities, or tears of relief that my torment was over, I wasn’t at first sure. But as Shivani disappeared into the darkness, leaving me alone on the stage, I realised at last that they were tears of gratitude.

**********

I often wonder why Shivani continues to summon me to the concert hall each Sunday evening long after she finally completed her studies. I cannot imagine she wishes to afford me the sexual gratification I derive from our meetings, and I know she now finds her own satisfaction in the arms and bed of another man. Shivani long ago returned with interest the pain of my abuse and abandonment and no longer seems to derive any pleasure from the weekly travails she inflicts upon me.

So why does she come?

Perhaps she does so to ensure the safety of the younger students, or maybe even because she believes my soul can only be purified by her brand of justice. But such ideas would only make sense were it not that my re-education is now all but complete, and I have long since made peace with my god.

No, I suspect Shivani still comes to quiet the ghosts of her past. As I have accounted for my mistakes, so must she, not least for the sake of our daughter. I believe that having completed her task of making me worthy as a man, Shivani’s next endeavour will be to make me worthy as a father.

Only then will the past become another country.