Copyright © 2009, alwayswantedto. All Rights Reserved.
All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 or older.
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I'm an accomplished piano player for my age. I won't say pianist because I'm not that talented but I've had many years of training, starting with lessons at the age of five from my piano teacher mom.
Mom is a stay-at-home wife who always supplemented our family income through piano lessons, provided (mostly) to the members of our parish which produced a fresh crop of students each year. For years, I watched Mom teach other kids, from beginners to graduates just surpassing their teacher's ability. We often attended recitals at our church to hear these students regale our flock with their prowess.
Mom always said I was capable of surpassing all of her past students. She was especially encouraging during my last year of high school when I was particularly keen to quit the piano in favor of the more earthly pleasures I had discovered that year in the back seat of my friend's car.
I have to say that the special encouragements that actually kept me in the piano game weren't her enthusiastic exhortations but rather the warm press of her loosely skirted thigh as she sat next to me on the piano bench and the accidental brush of her breast, clad in the silky white blouses she favored for teaching. I would often forego the opportunity to hang out with friends because I couldn't bring myself to give up an evening practice with Mom. Anyway, those sessions provided fertile ground for my imagination late at night, lying in bed, particularly after a fruitless search for carnal activities.
Imagination provided my only glimpses under Mom's healthy white blouse, or the thrill of inserting my hand under her skirt, or the sensuous feel of her long, supple fingers caressing the length of my vibrating shaft, a silky touch that carried me to bliss even through the harsh yanking of my own hand. I'm sure the press of Mom's leg and brush of her breast were unintentional, as were the brief displays of her thighs when she adjusted her skirt to get more comfortable on the bench, or her habit of touching my arm with her soft fingers whenever she wanted to make a point, all of which happened often that year but never before. If it was intentional, in order to keep me interested in the piano, it worked.
After graduation, and my application to a music program in college, Mom wasn't as pushy about keeping up with the piano. I was busy with my summer job and Mom seemed too tired to practice since she had more than the usual number of students whose parents pushed for summer remedial classes. It wasn't until the end of the summer, just before I left for college, that Mom left me with a memory that furnished my imagination for the next four months.
Mom and Dad were going out for a big get together. As usual, after some significant preparations, Mom was ready to go but Dad's efforts weren't up to snuff so she sent him upstairs to do a proper job. Exasperated, she turned to me, took my hand, and led me to the piano.
"Oh, that man," she sighed. "Let's play something to wash my stress away."
I sat down at the near end of the bench while Mom walked around to the other end. She had difficulty sitting in her tight dress. Pinching the material between her fingers, she barely won a struggle to tug it higher so she could sit down. But she eventually won and the victory pleased me as I watched the hem climb above Mom's knees and higher, inch by inch, until the top of her nylons were exposed.
After Mom sat down she began shuffling through the music books leaning against the piano in front of us. My eyes, however, were aimed between her exposed thighs, following the black straps that clipped onto the wide band of thicker nylon, nestled against the softest flesh I had ever seen, and disappeared into the darkness of Mom's dress.
Mom couldn't seem to find the right music to relieve the stress my father had created and flipped back and forth through several books before she finally found a suitable piece. I didn't mind. I could have looked at the straps holding up her nylons or, more accurately, the inner sanctity of her thighs, forever.
"Pay attention, John," Mom chided, readying her hands on the keys. I did the same, though I was loathe to tear my eyes from between her legs. "Do you remember this one?" she asked.
I nodded, and Mom began to play. We had to begin twice because I fumbled the keys but Mom was patient, even smiling while waiting for me to start again.
It was a familiar piece, a duet I knew by heart and which required little effort on my part, just to play along to Mom's lead. My eyes soon strayed beneath the keyboard to appreciate the narrow gap between Mom's legs which briefly widened whenever her foot was applied to one of the pedals. I thanked the stars that Mom was playing more energetically than usual, lifting her foot high off the pedal rather than slipping it on and off, probably because she was wearing high heels. This minor difference, amplified many times, caused her dress to slip higher on her thigh whenever her knee lifted. Near the end, when Mom was playing with particular enthusiasm, a dark strip poked through from underneath her dress. Her panties.
Even in the dim light, the puffiness of this narrow strip created the distinct impression that it yearned to be free of constraint. Thankfully, the song ended or I would have flubbed even my simple role. Mom wound up with a flourish and turned to face me. I tore my eyes away to look into her flushed face.
"That was wonderful, darling!" she exclaimed, her usual cheerful self reclaimed.
I nodded rather than speaking so I could look at her legs, now closed but still bare almost to the very top.
"Well, I'd better go check on your father," Mom's sigh seemed to bring her back to earth. She spun around the end of the bench and I turned to get up on my side.
"Damn!" Mom yelled.
Her outburst caused me to wheel around. She was sitting with her back to me, looking down at her feet. She twisted further around, still facing at a slight angle away from me, and tried to lift her right foot onto her left knee so she could look at the bottom of her shoe, but she couldn't quite get it there because of her tight dress.
"Look at my shoe for me, Jon," Mom said, dropping her foot and using the other to help pull herself around to face me more directly. "See if the heel's broken."
I knelt down in front of Mom, taking the foot she lifted toward me, and looked at the shoe. But my eyes immediately slid up to Mom's knees and beyond when I realized that her legs were open and she had pulled her dress very high so she was free to lift her leg. My hand slid under the sole of her shoe and my thumb slipped between the shoe and the arch of her foot, but my gaze was aimed directly at the black panties I could now see without any problems at all.
Mom's dress was higher, her legs wider, and the light no longer dim. The panties, I could see, were solid in some parts and lacily revealing in others. There was definitely a prominent protrusion in the front which I now observed to have a more complicated structure than I was able to see under the keyboard. Two ridges rose on each side to form cliffs that faced each other across a narrow chasm. I leaned closer to Mom so the direction of my gaze wouldn't be so obvious and also to block my swelling cock which was throbbing in my jeans.
"See if the heel's broken, Jon," Mom said, seeing that I was holding her shoe sole downward when I should have been twisting it up to look underneath.
I gripped Mom's leg just below the knee and urged it outward as I gently twisted her foot up to examine the heel of her shoe. Two things happened then as Mom's legs widened even further. First, her panties were stretched more tightly, pulling away from her legs and allowing a little tuft of hair to appear in the gaps on each side. Second, the chasm widened, depicting the external structure of her pussy more distinctively. A familiar tingle graced the head of my cock, the one that signaled an impending eruption.
"Is it broken?" Mom asked, jarring my eyes back to the shoe.
I bent Mom's foot back toward her so she could see for herself, holding her knee steady while the gap between her heel and her thigh narrowed. Mom's eyes were drawn to her shoe and mine returned to her panties, following a line of sight along the narrow spike of her heel as it pointed directly toward my target.
Mom hunched over to look at her shoe, legs widening even more and thrusting her pubes hard against the lacy panties. It was too much. I began spurting in my jeans. I tried to hide my jerky movements by wiggling Mom's heel to demonstrate its adhesive strength but I knew no amount of shaking would cover the wet blotch that would soon stain my pants. I was wondering how to escape the situation when I heard my father's footsteps at the top of the stairs.
"I'm ready," Dad called, starting his descent.
Mom stood, rapidly smoothing her dress over her legs and wiggling her foot firmly into place in her shoe. She tousled my hair as I remained crouched before her, leaning over my offending crotch.
"Play a nice tune for us while we leave, Jon."
I crawled up onto the bench and quickly tapped out a jolly tune, thankful for the chance to hide my incriminating damp crotch under the keyboard. I nodded at my parents when they said goodbye. Mother told me not to stay up too late, a habit she couldn't shake even though I was leaving for college in a matter of days.
Home for the Christmas holidays. I was eager to show off the new skills I had learned but Mom never joined me at the piano except to stand behind me while I played. My hopes for a replay of summer's end, especially another 'broken' heel incident, dwindled with each passing day. Christmas day passed uneventfully and we were approaching the last day of the year when Mom asked me if I would play a piece or two at the New Year's Eve party my parents were hosting that night.
"Sure, what would you like to hear?"
"Play a few pieces and I'll pick," Mom said, more cheery than she'd been all holiday.
I sat down and began to play. On the second song, Mom laid her hand on my shoulder. At the end of the song, she slipped down onto the bench beside me, eagerly awaiting my next number. I played my heart out for the third piece and my chest tightened when Mom exclaimed her pleasure when I finished.
"That was, how do you say it nowadays? Awesome," Mom enthused, turning slightly toward me.
"Thanks, Mom. I'm learning a lot at college," I said, proudly.
"That wasn't just learning, that was raw talent," Mom beamed.
I blushed and looked down.
"You must do a recital at Church."
I looked up quickly. This wasn't what I was hoping to achieve. "Mom, ..."
"Oh, but you must. Please, Jon."
I shook my head. "Mom, you know I ..."
"It would mean so much to me," Mom interrupted, her voice softening.
The change in her voice triggered an immediate feeling within me. I lowered my head to avoid her eyes, fearing my sudden carnal thoughts could be easily read, and was surprised to see the fingers of Mom's right hand scratching her skirt, slowly tugging it up from her knees. I went rigid, eyes fixed on Mom's thighs.
"It would be so wonderful to see you up there in front of everyone," Mom purred.
Mom's hand, now filled with her bunched up skirt, withdrew up her leg, dragging her skirt toward her hip. Her left knee moved but was blocked by the bench. Then, just as her hand stopped, Mom's right knee moved away, spreading her legs and drawing her skirt even higher. Suddenly, light reflected off a narrow expanse of white material, starkly outlined against the dark material of Mom's skirt.
"You will, won't you?" Mom asked, her voice still soft but not as smooth as before.
"I'm going back to school in a few days."
"Oh, but it won't be until summer. You can do it then, can't you?"
My voice caught in my throat but I nodded and managed to croak, "Yes, of course. If that's what you want, Mom."
"It is," Mom whispered, though we were the only ones home.
And with that, her hips pushed forward and her pubes strained against the cotton material that, though they didn't reveal as much as the lacy, black ones months before, still disclosed much, and my mind filled in the rest.
"You make me so happy, Jon," Mom's voice returned closer to normal but in a throatier version.
"But at the end of the summer, right?" I said.
Mom's brow furrowed. "The end?"
"Yes, we'll need to practice," I said.
"Yes," I said, my confidence rising. "I want to do a duet, with you."
"Oh, Jon. I couldn't play with you, not the way you're playing now."
"Sure you can. You just need to practice."
"No. I'd look like a fool."
"Bull," I said, the closest thing to a swear word I could use in front of my mom. Mom's eyes widened, realizing that I must feel strongly if I used a word like that in her presence.
"But Jon ...,"
"I want to play, with you, Mom." I held my finger to her lips to silence further protest. "I need you to be up there with me," I pleaded, "the two of us, together."
Mom looked deep into my eyes and I held firm. She must have been satisfied because she suddenly smiled sweetly and agreed, "Alright, Jon. The two of us will put on a show, a mother and son duet."
She leaned forward to kiss me. Surprised, I actually pulled back and Mom's lips landed on my cheek, as intended, but caught the corner of my mouth. Her face flushed slightly when she pulled back, indicating she was aware of the miscue. On impulse, I followed her retreat and kissed her back, my mouth partly on her mouth, as if in retribution. When I pulled away, I was surprised to find my hand had found her waist during the short duration of our caress and awkwardly pulled it away. My mind flooded with the awareness of how firm her waist was and a strange excitement about how sharply it flared out to her hips.
I cast my eyes down for a final look at Mom's panties and the lovely triangle they formed with her thighs, patted her bare knee, and said, "You'd better let me practice now if I'm not to play the fool tonight, then."
I played rather well that night and was the hit of the party. At midnight, several of the women, somewhat tipsy from the evening's consumption and loud merriment, showed me their appreciation under the mistletoe hung from every door jamb in the house. Unfortunately, there were only two that I really didn't mind kissing and only one of them kissed like she didn't mind if anyone was looking. I was surprised by these church-going women who, under the cover of darkness and a couple of drinks, were eager to provide a taste of what they had promised to someone else.
After everyone had left and Dad had stumbled upstairs, I stayed to help Mom tidy up so there wasn't such a big cleanup job the next morning. Mom was just leaving the kitchen, and I was bringing the last two glasses from the living room, when we met in the doorway. Mom took the glasses from my hand and placed them on the counter beside her instead of taking them in to the sink.
"That's enough for tonight. Thanks for your help, Jon."
"You played wonderfully tonight. Everyone really enjoyed themselves," Mom said. After a short pause, she added, "I noticed Mrs. Erickson was particularly pleased," referring to the good looking woman that trapped me under the mistletoe with a particularly enthusiastic embrace.
Although she was joking, I sensed displeasure. I looked up to the top of the doorway to avoid her eyes but they followed mine and we both latched onto the mistletoe that still hung there. I reached around to the light switch and flicked it down, throwing the kitchen into darkness. Mom's upturned face reflected the dim light of the single lamp lighting the living room behind me. I circled her waist with my arm and lowered my face to hers.
"Happy New Year, Mom," I whispered, covering her lips with my mouth before she could react.
Mom didn't resist me. In fact, she actually pressed against me as earnestly as Mrs. Erickson had, squashing her breasts against my chest and standing on her toes to meet my lips as they moved on hers. It was neither a short nor a long kiss and though Mom ended it, she was breathing hard when she pulled away. Both of us seemed awkward after my spontaneous act.
"Whew, I guess it's going to be quite a year," Mom cried, turning her head to the side to avoid my eyes, unnecessarily, given I was similarly looking around.
Mom stepped around me and rushed up the stairs to her bedroom, and husband.
A few days later, I left for school.
The Hot Summer Begins
The summer started slowly. After my initial welcome home and an official barbecue party with family and old friends, I settled into my summer job and lazy weekends hanging out with old friends, few of whom were still around. Many had gone elsewhere for summer work since not many jobs were available in our small town, and some of those who remained had changed and it just wasn't the same hanging out with them anymore. So I began spending more and more of my evenings and weekends at home.
It was easily three weeks before Mom brought up the promised recital. I hadn't forgotten it, I just didn't know how to bring it up. Reacting on gut instinct, I decided it would be better if Mom first broached the topic. On a quiet Wednesday evening, after she finished a book and Dad wasn't keen on talking since he was in the middle of his own who-dun-it, I did just that.
"So, when are you going to start practicing for the recital?" Mom just came right out with it.
I looked up, feigning confusion. "Recital?" I asked.
Mom threw a couch pillow at me. "Don't be a brat. You know darned well you promised me last Christmas that you would play for the Church."
"The Church?" I mused.
Another pillow. "Father!" Mom cried.
Dad looked up, first at Mom, then me, then back to Mom, then back into his book. "A duet, I believe, if my memory serves me right," he said.
Mom and I looked at each other, mouths open, then at Dad, shocked by this indisputable evidence that he was actually aware of what happened around him.
"You'd both better get to it, I imagine, and leave a man to read in peace," he said, nose still buried between the pages.
Mom and I looked at each other again and she crooked her head at the piano in the next room. I got up and led the way, sitting a little to one side to leave room for my mother. I waited for her to pick something to play, thinking about how fortunate it was that Mom was wearing a light and breezy summer dress and not the shorts or pants she typically gardened in during the summer. In fact, I realized now that I thought about it, she had been wearing dresses almost every day since I got home.
Mom sat down, sweeping the loose material of her dress under herself and then smoothing the topside over her thighs.
"You pick something," Mom said, seeing that I was waiting for her to choose.
"Alright," I replied, thumbing through the books, looking for something that wasn't designed as a duet, something that would put the onus on one player, Mom, leaving me with little to do. I was keen with anticipation, my body tingling so much, it was hard to breathe.
"This isn't a duet," Mom complained about my choice.
"It can be played like one," I assured her.
"But which parts should I play?"
"You play the whole thing, and I'll chime in."
Mom shrugged and began to play. I slipped in with little bits here and there, then more and more frequently with longer and longer parts. I ad-libbed the whole thing, thinking it up on the fly, enjoying the chance to put the long hours of improvizing with fellow music students into practice. Mom was really worked up. Not just her face but her whole body showed how delighted she was with this new experience. She sweated joy, and it was very endearing and quite infectious.