Piano Mother and Child

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

I'd say I'm a pretty good pianist among my peers, though I wouldn't call myself a "pianist" because I know I don't have that kind of talent. But since I was five, I've undergone years of rigorous training, and my mother has been my full-time piano teacher.

My mother has always been a full-time housewife, supplementing the family income by teaching piano lessons. Most of the students in her piano classes come from our parish, and she recruits a new batch of students every year. Over the years, I've watched my mother teach these children, from complete beginners to those whose piano skills surpass their teachers' by graduation. We often go to church to attend the students' piano recitals, watching my mother's students delight everyone with their extraordinary piano skills.

My mother always says that my potential surpasses that of any student she has ever taught. But in my final year of high school, I almost gave up practicing the piano, indulging in the unique pleasures I discovered in the back seat of my friend's car. My mother, however, encouraged me even more not to give up on the piano so easily.

I must say, it was some special motivation that kept me practicing the piano, not my mother's fervent admonitions. When she sat on the piano bench beside me, the warmth of her thighs beneath the loose hem of her skirt pressed against my legs, and the unintentional brush against her soft breasts while playing—these were the reasons I was drawn to the piano.

My mother always wore her favorite white silk blouse for teaching when she played the piano. I often turned down opportunities to go out with friends because I simply couldn't give up practicing with her. The imperceptible, alluring atmosphere that brewed during those piano practices always provided rich nourishment and content for my solitary, wildly imaginative sexual fantasies late at night, a stark contrast to my lack of physical stimulation.

In my imagination, I would cast a deep glance through the gap in my mother's loose white blouse, while my hand secretly slipped under her skirt, savoring the thrill of that trembling excitement. Or perhaps it was the feel of her slender, white fingers encircling my penis, her delicate, silky touch sending me to a blissful, dizzying peak of pleasure, even though in reality I was the one masturbating, ejaculating hot, white fluid.

I'm certain that when my mother pressed her thigh against my side, or accidentally touched my chest, it was all unintentional. Like when she adjusted her posture on the piano bench, she would habitually lift her skirt, revealing a section of her fair, rounded thigh. Or whenever she wanted to express her opinion, she would subconsciously touch my arm with her soft fingers.

But these little gestures all seem to have started this year; they had never happened before.

After graduating high school, I applied to university to study music. My mother was still not satisfied with my piano skills and hoped I would practice as much as possible to catch up with the piano lessons after the semester started. Meanwhile, I was busy working a summer job, and my mother was also very busy and tired throughout the summer because her piano training class had enrolled even more students, all of whom were forced by their parents to attend summer piano lessons.

This situation continued until the end of summer. Before I left home to enroll in university, the memories my mother left me with provided rich material for my sexual fantasies over the next four months.

One day, Mom and Dad were getting ready to go to a party. As usual, after carefully dressing up, Mom was all ready to leave, while Dad was still dawdling. Mom urged Dad to go upstairs to get ready, then turned to me with a hint of annoyance, pulling my hand to the piano.

"Sigh, that person," she sighed, "let's play a piece to calm our nerves."

I sat at one end of the piano bench, and Mom walked around to sit next to me. Her dress was very tight tonight, making it a little difficult for her to sit down, so she pinched the fabric of the hem with her fingers and pulled it up, then gracefully sat down.

I watched with delight as the hem rose above her knees, then inch by inch, until the edge of her nylon stockings was revealed.

After Mom sat down, she began to turn the pages of the sheet music on the piano in front of her, but my gaze remained fixed on the section of her thigh between the hem of her skirt and the edge of her stockings. Two black garters were clipped to the wide edge of the nylon stockings, making the skin disappearing into the dark hem of her skirt appear even whiter and smoother.

Mom seemed unable to find a suitable piece to relieve her frustration caused by Dad. She flipped through several sheet music books, finally finding a suitable piano piece. I, however, paid no attention to her, my focus remaining fixed on her garter belt, or more accurately, on the sacred area between her thighs.

"Focus, Joe," Mom reminded me, one hand already on the keys, ready to play. I placed my hands on the keys, reluctantly averting my gaze from between her legs.

"Do you remember this piece?" she asked.

I nodded and began to play with Mom. We had to start twice because my fingers hit the wrong keys, but Mom was patient, smiling as she watched me, waiting to start again together.

I actually knew this piece very well, I knew it by heart. It was a duet, and my part was just harmonies; I only needed to follow along with Mom's lead. My gaze quickly darted back and forth between the piano keys and the absolute territory of my mother's legs. One of her feet was on the piano's scale pedal, her legs widening with each press. I felt grateful for the treble clefs on the score, because when she played them, she lifted one foot high, rather than just barely touching the pedal. Perhaps because she was wearing high heels, this movement was slightly different from usual, and with each repetition, the tight hem of her skirt gradually slipped further down her thighs. Near the end of the piece, my mother played with even more passion, and a glimpse of black silk fabric was fully revealed from under her skirt—her underwear.

Even in the dim light, the bulge beneath that narrow black fabric left a very deep impression on me. It seemed to yearn to break free from its tight constraints. Fortunately, the piece ended, or I would have almost smashed it. My mother waved her hand across the keys and turned to face me. I looked away from between her legs, gazing at her flushed face.

"It's perfect, darling!" she exclaimed excitedly, her usual cheerful mood returning.

I couldn't say a word, only nodding, while stealing glances at her legs. Her legs were together, but beneath the hem of her skirt, a patch of snow-white skin was still exposed to the air.

"Alright, I'll go see if your father is ready," my mother's sigh seemed to pull her back to reality.

"Damn it!" my mother yelled again.

My mother's complaint made me turn around again. She was sitting with her back to me, staring at her feet. Then she turned slightly, her face still slightly turned towards me, trying to put her right foot on her knee so she could see the sole of her shoe, but the skirt was still too tight, and she couldn't do it after several attempts.

"Help me check my shoes..." my mother said, putting her foot down, supporting herself on her other foot, turning her body half a circle to face me directly. "Can you check if my heel is broken?" I knelt on one knee in front of my mother, holding her foot that was raised in front of me, and looked down at the shoe. But my gaze immediately shifted to her knees; her legs were spread apart, her skirt pulled up high so she could easily lift her legs. My hand touched the sole of the high heel, my thumb slipping between the shoe and her arch, but my attention was entirely focused on her black panties between her legs. Now I could look directly at her forbidden area without any obstruction.

My mother's skirt was pulled up even higher, her legs spread even wider, and the light was no longer dim. I could see that the panties tightly covered part of her mysterious area, while a hint of eroticism peeked out from under the lace. There were distinct mounds there, now I could discern a more complex structure than when I had peeked under the piano keys. Like a narrow valley between two opposing mountain ridges. I moved closer to my mother so that my gaze wasn't too obvious, and it also made my erection inside my jeans a little more comfortable.

"Check if the heel is broken, Joe," Mom asked. I was holding the shoe, sole down, and she thought I should lift it up to check.

So I grabbed her calf above her ankle, moved it slightly outward, and gently lifted her ankle to check the sole of her high heels. My mother's legs were now spread wider, and I noticed two alarming things. First, her panties were stretched even tighter from the groin towards the center, revealing a small patch of pubic hair underneath. Second, the valley of her mons pubis was more pronounced, highlighting the details of her vulva more clearly. A familiar, slight tingling sensation shot through my penis—a signal that I was about to ejaculate.

"Is it broken?" my mother asked, her voice drawing my attention back to her high heels.

I lifted her right foot towards her, bending her knee so the shoe was almost flush against her inner thigh, allowing her to see clearly. My mother turned her head down to look at the heel, while my eyes returned to her panties; the slender heel, like a sharp spear, was now pointing directly at where my gaze was focused.

Mom bent slightly, checking her shoes, her thighs spread wider, her mons pubis more prominent under her lace panties. The sight was so arousing that I impulsively ejaculated in my pants. To conceal the throbbing of my penis, I tried to twist Mom's heels to show they were still firmly attached. But I knew the trembling could be masked, though my pants would soon be soaked with semen. Just as I was thinking of a way to escape this predicament, I heard Dad's footsteps at the top of the stairs.

"I'm ready," Dad shouted downstairs.

Mom stood up, quickly straightened her skirt, and slipped her slender feet into her high heels. I remained squatting in front of Mom, and she reached out and ruffled my hair.

"Play us a nice tune when we leave, Joe," she said. I climbed onto the piano bench and immediately began to play a cheerful piece. I was secretly relieved to have hidden the incriminating evidence in my pants under the piano keys. When my parents said goodbye, I nodded to them. My mother told me not to stay up too late, even though I'd be going to university soon; she still didn't want me to develop the habit of staying up late.

[The End]

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