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.