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 f****y 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 k**s, 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 f****y 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.
We finished with a resounding flourish and Mom threw up her hands and then turned to hug me.
"That was fantastic!" she cried. "Oh, this is going to be so great, everyone will be bowled over." Mom clapped her hands, turning to the living room where Dad's feet were just visible, propped up on the Lazy boy chair tucked out of our sight in the corner. "Drew, did you hear that? Wasn't it incredible?"
Dad's head struggled into view, peeking around the wide entrance into the living room across the hallway and into the music room.
"Our first duet," Mom said. "Wasn't it beautiful?"
"Oh yes, quite," Dad replied, settling back into his chair. "Remarkable."
Mom turned back toward me. "Let's do it again," she said, settling her feet near the pedals and smoothing her skirt down but spreading her hands sideways this time, over her thighs rather than down to her knees, leaving the hem a few inches above her knees where it had settled on her agile legs as she played. "Ready?" she asked, starting before waiting for my answer.
I wasn't sure if I could remember my ad-libs but they actually came easily, leaving me lots of time to admire Mom. All of her, not just her shaking breasts and legs, but the way she switched from laughter to concentration, the arc of her neck, the delicate way she held her hands over the keyboard, and the softness of her arms. A warm glow enveloped me as I watched her play.
Mom showed as much joy the second time as she did the first, but this time she shared it all with me and didn't bother calling Dad.
"Do you want to do another piece?" I asked.
Mom nodded eagerly, then said, "But I'm playing so much and you're the one everyone wants to see."
"I'll find pieces we can both play but let's start with ones mostly by you."
Mom nodded, understanding that she needed practice more than I.
"But we'll be even in the end," I assured her.
"Oh, Jon. I don't know if I can," Mom seemed suddenly nervous.
"Don't worry. By the end of the summer, people won't be able to tell who's playing which parts."
Mom didn't look convinced.
"Trust me?" I asked.
Mom's face relaxed into a smile, "Always."
"Ok. This next piece needs a lot of footwork. What kind of shoes are you wearing?"
I dropped my hand to the side of Mom's knee and pried it toward her, looking down at her feet. Mom reacted by lifting her knee high to show me her feet, wonderfully letting her loose skirt slide high enough to show the thickening of her leg under her thigh.
"Hmmm, maybe you should play barefoot," I suggested.
Mom slipped her shoes off and placed her toes on the pedals, arching her feet with her heels held high, further slipping her dress up her legs. I nodded my approval.
That song was more difficult and we had to stop and start many times. But it was fun. Every time we stopped, Mom patted my thigh with her left hand as a kind of 'good work' signal. When we moved onto a third piece, I suggested that we each play with one hand.
At first, I let my right hand hang awkwardly between us but, with the need to sometimes reach across Mom, I curled it around her waist, holding onto her hip. Mom let her idle hand rest on my thigh and took to squeezing my leg instead of patting it when we completed a particularly successful section. In response, I pulled her toward me, enabling my hand to wrap farther around her waist, onto to her stomach just below her breast. I was in heaven.
We practiced that piece a lot, working out who should play what. At first we each played only the keys nearest us but it sounded better when we both played the full board, mostly on our own side but sometimes having to reach across in front of the other. This wasn't a problem for Mom but I found myself necessarily grazing the front and underside of her left breast quite often, an action Mom ignored even when my hand around her waist seemed to pull her forward onto my scr****g arm.
For her part, Mom's reaching arm never touched my chest, I lacking the appropriate contact points, but the hand on my thigh slipped between my legs on several occasions and, eventually, Mom just left it there, her palm constantly resting near my groin and her fingers trailing down between my jeans. I was always aware of its presence, no matter now interesting the tune.
We played for a long time, barely pausing between pieces. I copied Mom and kept my idle hand on her left thigh instead of around her waist and had similarly managed to let it slip between her legs. However, unlike hers, mine rested on bare leg, not jeans. The first time I put my hand down, Mom's leg was protected by the thin material of her colorful summer dress, but I gradually worked it back each time I lifted and replaced my hand. As with my scr****g arm, Mom seemed to be totally unaware.
I was deeper in heaven. It was one thing to look between my mother's legs, but to touch them, now that was real heaven. In my mind, I pictured the panties my hand was in such close proximity to. I wondered what color she was wearing. Were they yellow or red to match the colors on her dress, or simply plain white?
We stopped for a longer respite to pick a new piece to play, each of us providing one hand to hold the books, as if our other one, idle through the music, wasn't useful for any task. They remained where they were, each loosely gripping a thigh.
As we talked about one candidate piece, Mom's idle hand suddenly became less placid, her fingers idly scratching the inside of my jeans. I don't think it was intentional. I think it just happened without thought as she concentrated on what she was thinking. But my response was deliberate. Tentatively, I let my index finger, the one farthest from her panties, move the tiniest bit and, when there was no response, a little more. Soon, I was stroking the inside of Mom's thigh, not as much as she was and keeping my palm rigidly still, but scratching all the same.
Now, here's the thing. I knew Mom was aware of my shenanigans. She gave absolutely no indication that she was, but I knew, I could sense it. And she let it happen!
We had just settled on which piece to do next and had started talking about how to play it, a moment when Mom was really concentrating, when I let my little finger stroke her leg too. I knew immediately that Mom was aware, despite her concentration, by a downward flash of her eye, even though her head didn't move and her speech never faltered.
This was a clear transgression. This was no friendly pat, or flirtatious scratch. This was a definite caress no more than two inches from her panties on the softest flesh her body possessed. There was no mistaking its intent. Twice more Mom's eye flickered but my pinky kept stroking, slow and gentle, but persistent.
We kept discussing the piece. Admittedly, I prolonged the discussion with needless queries for clarification, but Mom didn't seemed annoyed. She calmly explained how she thought things should go, not once glancing down or batting her eye, and the whole time my pinky was scr****g up and down near her puss.
"Are you ready?" Mom finally breathed.
"Yeah," I croaked.
We began. Incredibly, we played that entire piece without stopping, not even once. And not just because we didn't want to. We didn't make a mistake through the entire piece, not a single one. It was perfect.
When it was over, we both slumped back, in awe of ourselves, each with a hand on the keys and one between the other's legs, both drawn more tightly back than when we had started. I could now feel the edge of Mom's hand along the front of my crotch, a good inch and a half closer than when she had started playing. There was no doubt she was aware of how hard I was.
My hand hadn't slipped so close to Mom's center but my stroking pinky was in full contact with the edge of her panties, slowly scr****g up and down by her leg hole, its little knuckle rubbing beside the ridge on my side. I was wondering how long I could get away with this, and how we could extricate ourselves while pretending nothing had happened, when the solution arrived.
Father's Lazy Boy sprung loudly as he levered his chair closed. As he stood and faced us, our hands rapidly jerked from between each other's legs and Mom quickly smoothed her dress down to her knees.
"Done for the night?" Dad asked.
"Mmm, yes, I think so," Mom replied, turning to look at me for confirmation, her face red.
"Just one more little ditty, Dad," I said, pointing at some music for Mom to look at with her red face.
Dad turned toward the stairs. "Well, I'm done," he said.
As his footsteps dwindled, Mom said, "I'd better go to bed, too," but she didn't make a move to leave.
"That went really well," I said, "but we should practice a lot if we're going to do it in front of people."
"When Dad's home," Mom said, looking down.
"Why?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
"Because he likes to listen, too" Mom replied. With that, she twisted away and ran up the stairs after my father, not giving me a goodnight kiss for maybe the first time in my life.
I didn't get an opportunity to practice with Mom again until Saturday night. I don't know if she was avoiding me or what but she was busy every evening and would have been on Saturday too except Dad was sick and opted out of their regular dinner date. Mom made Dad something bland for dinner and spread a comforter over him after he settled back in his Lazy Boy, his favorite spot. She handed Dad the book he was currently reading but he closed his eyes and turned his head to the side.
Mom and I both sat on the couch, at opposite ends, reading. I glanced at Mom often but she concentrated on her book. She was wearing a plain summer dress, a dull, checkered gray with thin white lines, not near as bright and cheery as the one she'd worn the last time we played. The top was cut square with heavy straps that arched over her shoulders to fasten to the front with big buttons. The only redeeming feature of the dress, well two, were the openness of the bodice which, designed for the summer heat, left ample room for body-heated air to escape, leaving Mom's upper assets on display. The second redeeming feature was the lightness of the material; it clung to Mom's hips and legs when she moved and did little to conceal the shape of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist, and the flare of her hips.
Mom's elbow was leaning on the arm of the couch, distributing her weight on her right thigh so she could tuck her feet up beside her. Strangely, I noticed that Mom's feet were clean on the bottom even though her feet were bare. I was content to simply look at her.
Dad's sudden snore jarred me from my thoughts. I got up and held my hand out to Mom.
"Come on, it's time to practice," I said in response to her questioning eyes.
Mom shook her head, returning to her book.
I tugged Mom's hand. "Come on Mom. Don't you want the recital to go well?"
That got her attention. She looked up sharply, concern showing on her face. "Yes."
"Then you have to work for it," I said, pulling her arm hard enough that she had to follow.
Something about her inertia felt magically feminine. I don't know why and I have no idea how I could sense that, but I did. Mom resisted until I had her pulled forward.
"Wait," she said, struggling to get her feet onto the floor.
As soon as she did, I renewed my effort to pull her up, finally succeeding, but she resisted all the way even though both she and I knew she was going to come. She even resisted as I pulled her toward the piano, feet dragging, almost stumbling. It made me more excited to know she didn't really want to but was coming anyway. I don't have an explanation for that, either.
As we passed in front of Dad, Mom whispered, "We'll wake Dad."
"No we won't. Anyway, he loves to hear us play."
Mom couldn't argue with that but appeared ready to. Just then, Dad spoke.
"Play something long and slow for me." He didn't even open his eyes or give any other indication that he was awake.
Startled, both Mom and I said, "Sure," at the same time.
Mom stopped by the piano to slip her feet into her slippers that were tucked beneath the bench and I realized then that she had been practicing on her own when I wasn't home. She twisted around and sat on the end of the bench, slumped forward in the demeanor of a c***d who didn't want to play, like me years ago when I wanted to play outside but had to do my lessons with my Mom.
"It won't hurt. It'll be over before you know it and one day you'll thank me for making you do this," I parroted the exact words Mom had repeated to me many, many times.
Mom laughed but remained slumped in mock resistance. I knelt before her, lifted her foot and, slipping one hand behind her ankle, pulled her slipper off her foot. I repeated this with the other foot and then swung her legs around the bench to face the piano.
"Why don't I pick something first," I suggested sitting on the bench beside Mom.
I settled on a piece and had to pick up Mom's listless hands to place them on the keyboard. She was being a real bugger about this. I began playing. Mom didn't. I kept playing and slowly, she joined in. Halfway through, she was playing with as much joy as I.
I stuck to playing and didn't make any attempts to touch Mom inappropriately. We played several pieces before I suggested, loud enough for Dad to hear, that it was time to play the long piece we had promised Dad. I turned to an especially long and gentle piece.
"You start," I said.
Halfway down the page, I still hadn't joined in but Mom was into it now, swaying with the music. As Mom switched to the top of the next page, I dropped my hand and 'straightened' her skirt, managing to pull the dull, gray dress halfway up her thighs. Mom paid no attention.
At the bottom of the page, I leaned close to Mom and turned the page for her, slipping my arm around her waist. Mom still paid no attention, even when my hand tugged her closer to me and massaged the warm flesh underneath the thin dress. I straightened in my khaki shorts, beginning to fill them as a man should.
As the song wore on, I played a few keys with my left hand, but only enough to give the impression that I was involved. I was far more interested in the play being executed by my other hand which was sliding up and down Mom's narrow waist from the swell of her hip to the bulging bottom of her right breast.
My thumb and index finger were squeezing between the heaviness of Mom's breast and her ribs. After I turned the page again, I let my hand move outward once it had squeezed in, pushing and lifting her breast away from her chest before letting it drop as I continued brushing her waist down to her hip. I had done this maybe a dozen times before Mom acknowledged, indirectly, what I was doing.
"Come on, Jon. Put more effort into it, for your father," Mom whispered.
At that point, my hand just happened to be squeezed under Mom's breast ready to push it out. I nodded and started to slide my hand out but then twisted it up and cupped the bottom of her breast. At the same time, I began to play with my left hand, leaving my right to cup Mom's breast.
Mom was pleased to see me start playing but her pleasure was countered by the presence of my impertinent hand. Or was it? Though clearly aware, Mom didn't tell me to stop, or twist her torso away as a signal to remove my hand. I realized then that Mom was allowing me a certain latitude in return for doing what she wanted.
When I thought about it, she had always been lenient with me when there was something she wanted me to do, and she applied the same behavior toward my father. I could remember one occasion when Mom wanted something my father didn't want to do but later did. I had woken that night to the sound of intense sex and, lying on my stomach, I orgasmed into my cupped hands. I never fell asl**p after that on nights my parents argued, at least those when it was my father resisting doing something for my mother. I waited until the inevitable sounds of great sex. Long sex. Sex that sounded like it was just the kind my father really wanted but seldom got.
I squeezed Mom's breast, sending a signal that this was no accident. Turning to the last two pages of notes, I dropped my hand below the keyboard to rest it on Mom's thigh. As Mom played, pointedly staring at the notes, I slipped my hand under the dull, gray dress to the greet the excitement of the warm flesh underneath. Mom closed her legs but when I whispered in her ear that she was playing so well that I was sure the recital would be a huge success, she relaxed and they opened again, enough for me to worm my fingers between and scratch the flesh barely an inch from her panties. I was impressed how Mom managed to stay in time and didn't rush to finish. She was a true professional and ignored the presence of my hands to the very end.
As soon as the song ended, I got up and went into the living room. Dad was lying with his eyes closed but opened them when I spoke.
"How was that Dad?"
"That was great, son. Fantastic," Dad exclaimed enthusiastically, but I had the sense that he hadn't really heard much of it, that he had dozed off.
"We're going to do something really different now, Dad, a duet where we both play the whole keyboard, with both hands, rather than just our own side."
"Really?" Dad asked, almost rhetorically. "I'd like to hear that."
I returned to the piano. Mom was sitting off the end of the bench again, eyeing me with a questioning look, wondering what on earth I was talking about. She hadn't bothered to pull her dress down and looked tremendously sexy sitting there with most of her thighs showing, though her knees were demurely held together, and her dark brown, full-bodied, wavy hair in disarray. I strode around her and pulled a book out that I had tucked behind the others that afternoon as Mom swiveled to face the piano.
I opened the book to the piece I wanted to play and leaned over Mom's left shoulder, my face next to hers as she leaned forward to look. As Mom examined the piece, I pulled on the bench seat until Mom partially lifted her weight, allowing me to drag it almost a foot from the piano. Mom's attention was on the music. When I pushed on her lower back she silently obliged by shifting forward until she was sitting near the edge of the seat. She noticed what I was doing when I sat behind her, my legs straddling hers.
"What are you doing?" Mom asked, emphasizing 'are', her tone indicating she thought I was up to some kind of prank.
"This piece has to be played by one pianist with four hands, so I have to sit behind and reach around you."
"Oh. So that's why there's two sets of notes through the piece?" Mom asked, turning her head partly toward me. I was so close, her ear contacted my mouth.
"Yes. It's a hard piece. It'll take a lot of practice," I whispered, my lips grazing Mom's ear.
Mom nodded. "A lot of practice," she repeated what I had said.
"Yes. Your part is in red, mine is in green."
Mom nodded looking back at the music.
"I won't play for the first few times. Just get used to me sitting behind you while you play."
Mom nodded again. "Behind me," she whispered.
"That's right," I said. I placed my hands on Mom's waist, just above her hips. "OK, let's go."
Mom placed her hands on the keyboard and began playing. I held her waist but didn't move except to flip the page for her. Although at first tense playing in this odd configuration, she relaxed soon after I turned the first page. The music intensified in this section, growing slowly, building to an emotional high that would soon subside near the end, sliding into a long lilting rhythm.
As the notes betrayed their ascending trend, I slipped my hands up to cup the bottoms of Mom's breasts, taking just a little of their weight. In response to her sharp intake of breath, I whispered, "That's it. Feed on the emotion, throw it back to the audience."
Stiff, and playing with her breath caught in her throat, Mom gradually conquered the tension, her body relaxing even though her breath was still coming fast. Slowly, I rubbed my closed fingers and palms under her breasts, wishing she hadn't worn a bra but even so still barely able to retain control of my own breathing. Throughout the rise, I continued to gently rub the bottom swell of her breasts, never squeezing, never gripping, just rubbing the soft underside of her tits, until the crescendo was breached and the music slowly rolled down to the gentle lap of continuous, evening waves. I turned the page and returned my hands to Mom's waist, matching the slow return of my breathing with hers, feeling the music through her.
It wasn't long before the music began to rise again. My hands massaged Mom's waist, fingers stretching around so far they almost met over her belly. I could sense Mom's anticipation that I was about to raise my hands to grasp her breasts directly above. Her expectation was so intense I could physically feel it in her muscles even as she continued to play with a sensitivity I'd never heard from her before.
But my hands didn't rise. When Mom reached the same point up the musical slope where I had first cupped her breasts, I moved my hands back and then downward instead, slowly scr****g over her hips to make sure she could feel my progress. Down I ventured, onto the top of her thighs, dragging her dress toward her knees, until my hands were far enough they could slip between her legs.
With exaggerated movements of my fingers, I clawed the dull, gray material of the dress up until it was all bunched in my hands. After pausing for a moment, I released the dress and slipped my hands underneath, opening and stretching my fingers to clasp Mom's inner thighs, palm down on each leg. Slowly, in time with the music, I moved my hands in until they bracketed Mom's panties. Then, after another brief pause, I began pressing in, squeezing her panties between the edges of my two hands, puffing them out, like two hamburger patties being f***ed out of a bun but unable to escape, prevented by the thin wall of her panties.
Faster and faster I squeezed as the music rose but gently, always gently, and never moving my hands onto the panties, just pressing from the side to squeeze Mom's pubes together, then relaxing, again and again and again. I couldn't help humping the fleshy part at the back of Mom's dress. I tried to stop myself but I just couldn't. I twisted my hips in small thrusts, in tandem with my squeezing hands, faster and faster, with the music, always with the music, and then ...
Mom cried out.
A single cry and then the music stopped, echoing throughout the room as Mom's cry subsided, as my hips stopped moving and my seepage waned, until Mom stopped quivering between my hands.
Soon, it was quiet except for the ragged sound of our breathing. Slowly, that returned to normal. Reluctantly, I climbed off the bench, knowing I had to go. I kissed Mom's neck, said goodnight, and turned to walk up the stairs behind me, knowing I had to escape before my father came in and my wet pants betrayed me. I heard mom belatedly mumble when I was halfway up the staircase.
Over the Edge
The next morning, I lay in bed wondering if last night had been a dream, but knowing it wasn't. I hadn't faced Mom at the end but I had to now. I would be expected at breakfast before we all left for Church.
My apprehension was ill-founded. Mom behaved as if everything was normal. I thought it was just an act that would soon fray under its own tension, but it didn't. Somehow, Mom really acted as if last night hadn't changed our lives like I thought it had. The entire day played out like any other Sunday, through Church, the afternoon and even supper. Dad was feeling better but worsened after dinner and repaired to his Lazy Boy, snuggling under the comforter Mom d****d over him before walking to the couch and taking my hand. After tugging me to my feet, Mom pulled me across the floor.
"You don't mind if I drag your company away do you Father?" Mom asked.
"Not at all," Dad looked up from his book, smiling. "Do what you want with him," he waved with his free hand.
In the piano room, Mom pushed me toward the piano. "Get the music ready. I'll be right down."
I opened the book to our piece and sat down after running to the living room to grab one of the flatter, silky pillows to place on the bench. Mom returned a moment later. There was something different but I couldn't see what it was. Had she washed her face, freshened her lipstick? I couldn't tell but something was different.
Mom stopped by the bench and slipped her slippers from her feet. The muscles in her calves tensed prettily and my breath caught when she looked at the pillow placed mostly on but partly off the front of the bench.
"Is that for me?" Mom asked.
"Yes," I nodded.
"Thank you," Mom said, hooking the top of her toes around the ankle of her other foot and sliding them up her calf. "Are you ready to play?" she asked, looking down at the bench, already pulled away from the piano.
I nodded again, taken aback by Mom's sudden assertion of control. She dropped her hands to her side and pulled her summery, dark green dress with a loosely pleated skirt up, baring half her thighs as she stepped between the bench and the piano before sitting down on the pillow. Mom turned to look over her shoulder.
"Sit and play, Jon," she said, before turning back to the piano.
I walked towards her in my summer shorts, and swung my barefooted legs over the bench one at a time to seat myself firmly behind her, immediately noting the greater expanse of fleshy behind available now that Mom was sitting on a pillow, as I had planned. Mom put her hands on the keyboard, ready to play, then turned her head as if waiting.
"Go ahead," I said.
Mom didn't move. I repeated myself but she still didn't budge.
I raised my hands and placed them on Mom's hips. Immediately, she faced the piano and began to play. I moved my hands up and down her waist, enjoying the swell of flesh out to her hips and pushing further around to splay my fingers across her tummy. I could feel the large indent that formed Mom's navel and wished I could lay my bare hands on it, imagining teeny blond hairs, though Mom was a brunette, running from there over her soft belly until they thickened into the brown bush covering her pussy. I knew her pussy hair was brown because I'd seen it poking out the leg of her panties.
Mom continued playing as if that was all we were doing, playing the piano, despite the extent of my roaming hands. It was some time before I moved my hands up to cup Mom's breasts and received a small shock. Her breasts were much softer and I could feel their shape better than before. Mom was not wearing a bra!
I could only see the side of Mom's face but it seemed to me that the corner of her mouth was definitely turned up into a smile. I couldn't be sure because it disappeared quickly and then I wondered if I had imagined it. Real or not, Mom was obviously not bothered by me flagrantly caressing the bottom of both her breasts. If there was any doubt about her allowing this transgression, it disappeared when Mom turned the page herself. I had forgotten all about it.
Encouraged, I formed my hands completely around her tits and began a gentle, squeezing massage, like I was handling two erotically shaped water balloons that required delicate care lest they break. Cautiously, so as not to disturb her playing, I laid my head sideways on Mom's back and continued my loving embrace. When I felt Mom's arm lift to turn the page again, I slipped both hands up to take a firmer grip of each breast, my fingers circling around those incredible little extensions I had only fondled in my dreams. Now, with a simple loosening of my grip, my fingers slid up to close around Mom's wonderous nipples.
Fuck. This was so great. I hunched my boner into the fleshiness of Mom's ass as I lightly pinched and rolled her nipples through the dress. In my mind, I was holding Mom's bare tits and her nipples protruded beyond my circling fingers at least half an inch. I was going to come. It was swelling up and up. I couldn't stop it unless I chucked that image out of my mind, quit humping against her bottom, and let go of her tits. I couldn't do any of these, so my jiz welled up until it flooded out of my cock, like a tidal swell rather than a burst, washing it's stickiness into my shorts.
When my surroundings came back into focus I realized Mom had stopped playing. I was still holding her tits but my fingers were loose and no longer moving. I just held them as I recovered my breath, leaning against her back, blanketed by a wonderful feeling of bliss. I never wanted to let go but I realized I had to clean myself up. As mom started to play the piece over, I released her breasts and reluctantly pulled away.
"Is something the matter," Mom asked.
"No, I just have to go to the bathroom," I answered sheepishly.
"Hurry back," she said, her voice low and strangely urgent.
Upstairs, I pulled my shorts off and cleaned up the mess I had made, then tossed my shorts and underwear into the laundry hamper, still covered with my sticky cum. I walked half naked down the hall to my room, my swaying cock beginning to stiffen as I pictured myself feeling Mom up while she played the piano. Quickly, I removed my shirt and put on a pair of pajamas, and half ran back downstairs.
"That's a good idea," Mom said, turning to look at me when she heard me coming down the stairs.
I resumed my position straddling Mom's hips, the thought of Mom wearing a loose pair of pajamas with nothing on underneath greatly appealing to me and my stiffening companion.
"Maybe we should get changed before we start practicing tomorrow night," I suggested.
"That sounds like a good idea," Mom concurred. "Tomorrow night? Do you think we need to practice every night?"
"I think it would be a good idea," I said. "We want to perform our best, don't we?"
"Of course we do," Mom breathed.
I snuggled up to Mom and noticed that her dress, which had been smoothed under her bottom and legs, was bunched up behind her. She was no longer sitting on it. As Mom played, I gathered the dress in my hands carefully so she wouldn't feel me doing it. After a quick glance toward the living room, I cautiously raised the dress. I could see the waistband of Mom's panties, just barely, running across the pillow. They must have been small ones because that's as far up as they came. Mom's crack was barely visible, squished between the pulpy flesh of her upper cheeks.
I leaned forward to lay my head on Mom's back again. Could I get my hands under her dress? Of course. Could I get away with it? Of course. Why else would she have pulled it out from underneath herself?
I was hard again. Mom must be able to feel me. She must have felt me before, bulging against her ass, and definitely would have felt me humping against her, but this time it was unmistakably a hard cock poking into her. I slipped my hands under the material of Mom's dress but kept them on the bench, behind her. I checked the living room to make sure I could still see Dad's feet resting on the footrest of his Lazy Boy.
Omigod. I could see Dad's face, reflected in the glass doors of the bookcase against the far wall of the living room. Jeez! I froze, staring at Dad's reflection. Can he see me? No. Dad wasn't looking at the bookcase but if he did, he probably could see me. I couldn't see that well, but he appeared to be reading.
God, I'm lucky he didn't catch me feeling up Mom. Dad could have turned his head anytime and looked, and when he was dozing off with his head turned to the side, all he had to do was open his eyes and focus on the reflection in the glass. Fuck! How could I keep ravishing Mom now?
I was pondering this very question when my hands answered for me. They twisted, palms facing Mom, and pressed against the bare skin above the waistband of her panties.
Jesus, Jon. Don't, I cried to myself.
But it was no use. My hands pushed outward, sliding forward onto the outside of Mom's thighs. Her bare skin! Fuck, this was awesome. I pulled my hands back and pushed them forward again, then started sliding them back and forth. I stared at the reflection of my father, ready to jerk my hands away at the slightest sign of movement.
No, don't. Just keep them still unless he gets up. That made more sense. He probably couldn't see well enough in the reflection to see what I was doing. This was much safer, with my hands under Mom's dress. Surely he would have seen me had he looked up while I was groping Mom's tits half an hour ago. He would have seen my hands which had no business being on the front of Mom's dress, but this, he couldn't see this, I was sure of it. Not from there in a reflection.
Did Mom know about the bookcase? Is that why she lifted her dress? Did she get off on danger? Was it an invitation to continue? There was only one way to find out.
In the next foray forward over Mom's legs, I drew up short and then slipped my hands up onto her hips, paused, then slid them around onto her bare tummy, my fingertips dipping in to her large, sunken navel. Other than a minor flinch from exploring fingers, there was no response. Mom kept playing without the slightest change in her playing. I circled one fingertip around and around into Mom's navel, then moved my hands up into position below Mom's breasts.
I made the move, cupping the roundness of her tits, my fingers folding lovingly around their perfect curvature. My cock lurched in my pajamas. Quickly, I moved my fingers up to explore Mom's wonderful nipples, unable to resist flicking them up and down with my thumbs before adding a finger to pinch, roll and tug them. There was the briefest flicker in Mom's playing but she quickly recovered. Oh my fucking god. Her bare tits! I twisted my head and tried to chew Mom's shoulder blade through her dress. They felt better than I ever imagined. They were perfect. Perfect! Perfect!!
I moaned into Mom's back and began hunching against her again. The picture in my mind of Mom's chest was now in HDTV, not a blemish in sight. I groped them mercilessly, unable to control myself, pushing myself painfully into her butt. I had to do something before I broke my cock.
I was loathe to do it but do it I did. I let go of Mom's right tit and pulled my hand away, down and out of her dress. I grabbed my swollen prick, which had poked through the hole in the front of my pajamas, and used it to find Mom's ass crack. I pushed in and down until I felt the waistband of Mom's panties and them pushed my cock between it and Mom's ass, humping a couple of times to make sure it didn't come out. Quickly, I slipped my hand up to retrieve Mom's tit and nipple and started humping.
Through my legs I felt Mom's feet lift from the pedal and plant themselves higher against the front paneling of the piano. She was bracing herself to keep me from pushing her off the seat as I vigorously shoved my cock back and forth under her ass. I couldn't care less what anyone thought now. I needed to come on Mom's ass and nothing could stop me. Mom had stopped playing. I jerked my head to the bookcase reflection to see if Dad had noticed. He was still reading! Mom's hands were now braced against the keyboard as my humping increased in f***e.
I had to hurry. Dad probably thought we were between pieces, not paying enough attention to realize Mom had quit in the middle. I started hunching my hips furiously, desperate to finish, needing to cum, my cock sliding full length, pressed down onto the pillow by Mom's squeezing crack. The feel of her hot, rubbery flesh scr****g moistly along the top of my bone was exquisite... too exquisite... I started to come.
Splash! Spurt, spurt, ohhhhh goodddd, this is ... great, ahhhh, yeah, unggnhhh, unnghhhh, yeah, yeaaahhhh.
I relaxed on Mom's back but kept my eyes on Dad's reflection. He was still reading. I watched him as my breathing returned to normal. Mom's feet dropped back to the floor and her hands relaxed on the keyboard but she didn't resume playing. I let go of her tits and pulled my hands from underneath her dress and pulled my hips back, my slippery cock sliding out of her panties. I tucked my dick back inside my pajamas and, as soon as I did, Mom lifted herself and swept her dress underneath before sitting back down. She had no sooner finished than Dad's head poked around the corner.
"Would you guys like some tea and cookies?"
"Uhhh, yeah. Thanks Dad."
He was up and turning the corner, heading for the kitchen. I stood up and looked down at myself to make sure I was presentable. I was. Mom stood and I followed her, then veered toward the stairs.
"No, no. Come here. I want to show you something."
Dad waved Mom into the kitchen. Mom complied and I started up the stairs.
"No. You too, Jon."
I checked myself to make sure I was presentable, then followed Mom into the kitchen.
"Try some of these," Dad said, beaming. He held out a bag from our local bakery, full of treats. "I could hardly wait until you finished to give you these," he said. "You've been practicing so hard."
You can say that again, I thought.
Mom took a pastry and took a small bite, quickly raising her other hand to catch the crumbs that spilled from her mouth.
"Thanks Drew. You shouldn't have," Mom mumbled.
"You too, Jon," Dad insisted.
I chose a butterhorn, my favorite, and took a large bite.
I couldn't help thinking how ludicrous this was, eating special pastry treats my Dad bought while he made us some tea, my cock still firm enough to slap against my leg, slick from my own cum, most of which was in Mom's panties, drying on her ass as she munched on the eclair her husband had just given her. God. I wished I could guarantee my father wouldn't turn around. I dearly wanted to lift Mom's dress and shove my cock back inside her panties.
Oh, no. That thought was a killer. My cock was stiffening, rising off my leg and bending up, against my pajamas, pushing them out. Quickly, I shuffled over to the kitchen table and sat down, pulling my chair in to hide myself. Mom noticed and did the same. I loved the surprised look on her face as my cum must have made its presence better known as her cheeks pressed down on the chair.
We sat there, the three of us, drinking tea and eating all the pastries. I managed to get my cock down, helped along by imagining it lying across an anvil in front of my father who was wielding a huge hammer. I don't know what my mother was thinking. For all appearances, she could have been at a church social.
Mom declined another pastry just after I accepted another, never being one to turn down a treat. Mom left, saying she was going upstairs because she needed a shower before going to bed. I ridiculously thought she was going to give us away when she glanced at me just as she said she was getting a shower.
After Mom left, Dad spoke to me in a lowered voice.
"Son, I know this is a little sensitive, but it has to be said."
Oh, no. He saw us. Christ, I thought he'd be angry, raving mad. Not calm like this.
"I know you're a growing lad, full of vim and vigor as I once was," Dad said, "but you have to get better control of yourself."
"Control?" I mustered as much innocence as I could and plastered it onto my face.
"Yes. You know what I mean." Dad waved his hand several times, then pointed it around and under the table. "You were starting to show when you came in the kitchen."
Despite myself, my face flushed beet red.
"I know, I know. It's just one of those things. It happens sometimes when a man is near a woman, even his own mother."
Dad looked away, up at the ceiling, as if he was remembering something.
He went on, looking at the table rather than me, completing his thought, "... especially sitting so close. Not much can be done about it, but you have to try."
Dad paused, staring at the table. He looked up.
"If your mother ever gets wind of it, she'll have a fit. There won't be a recital, and that would break her heart. And she'll never look at you the same."
Dad looked away, wistfully, at the ceiling again.
"Nope. She won't, that's for sure."
"Dad, I ...,"
He looked back at me, cutting me off. "I know, I know. You couldn't help it, sitting right behind a good looking woman like your mother. Even if she is your mom, a man can't help it. I know you have to sit like that to play that piece, but, um, maybe you should put on a jock strap before you play. That would help. Can you do that?"
"Yeah, Dad. I can do that," I said, eager to please, then feeling ashamed, I dropped my head.
"No, no. None of that. It's natural. Don't feel bad about yourself. God knows you can't help it at your age, I know about that. You just do as I said and make sure your mother never finds out. OK?"
"That's my boy." Dad got up from the table and walked past me toward me the door. "Well, don't stay up too late and don't think about it too much." Dad put his hand on my shoulder and shook it. "OK?"
"Not a word of this in confession. Right?"
Mom didn't want to practice the next two nights. I wondered if Dad had said anything to her after they went to bed but decided that he hadn't. She must just be freaked about standing in the kitchen, drinking tea and eating biscuits with her husband while her son's cum dried in her panties. I rushed home from work to talk to Mom on Wednesday, knowing I had about half an hour before Dad got home. I found her at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea. I got right to the point.
"Mom, we have to practice or we'll blow the recital."
She avoided my eyes, looking down like my father had done Sunday night.
"You don't want that, do you?
"Is something wrong?"
There, I had opened it up. I had thought about this all day and was scared of this, knowing it might lead to an ultimatum.
"No. Well, not really. It's just that," Mom was twisting her fingers together on the table in front of her. "It's just that ... things went a little further than I thought. I just, I just ... oh, I'm so confused."
Tears appeared under Mom's eyes, running over her cheeks and dripping onto the table, but there was no sound, no sobbing or crying. I tried Dad's thought, that I was just an eager teenager that couldn't help himself.
"Mom, I know. It's just that, well, I can't help myself, being so close to you, you being so pretty and all."
"I know all about that, Jon. I'm not really all that worried because I know I won't let it get out of hand. You know that too, don't you?"
Mom's piercing look demanded my attention and I nodded.
"I know, Mom. Just a little fun, that's all. Maybe not so far from now on."
"Yes," Mom looked down. "Maybe not so far."
Thank god she wasn't cutting me off completely. Putting my dick into her panties was a little outrageous and I was certain if it hadn't been for the recital she would have cut me off for good. Instead, she was just putting the brakes on a little. I was pretty sure that meant I could still play with he
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