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.