Chapter 1: First Sight

I’m an accomplished piano player for my age. I won’t say pianist because I’m not that talented but I’ve had many years of training, starting with lessons at the age of five from my piano teacher mom.

Mom is a stay-at-home wife who always supplemented our family income through piano lessons, provided (mostly) to the members of our parish which produced a fresh crop of students each year. For years, I watched Mom teach other kids, from beginners to graduates just surpassing their teacher’s ability. We often attended recitals at our church to hear these students regale our flock with their prowess.

Mom always said I was capable of surpassing all of her past students. She was especially encouraging during my last year of high school when I was particularly keen to quit the piano in favor of the more earthly pleasures I had discovered that year in the back seat of my friend’s car.

I have to say that the special encouragements that actually kept me in the piano game weren’t her enthusiastic exhortations but rather the warm press of her loosely skirted thigh as she sat next to me on the piano bench and the accidental brush of her breast, clad in the silky white blouses she favored for teaching. I would often forego the opportunity to hang out with friends because I couldn’t bring myself to give up an evening practice with Mom. Anyway, those sessions provided fertile ground for my imagination late at night, lying in bed, particularly after a fruitless search for carnal activities.

Imagination provided my only glimpses under Mom’s healthy white blouse, or the thrill of inserting my hand under her skirt, or the sensuous feel of her long, supple fingers caressing the length of my vibrating shaft, a silky touch that carried me to bliss even through the harsh yanking of my own hand. I’m sure the press of Mom’s leg and brush of her breast were unintentional, as were the brief displays of her thighs when she adjusted her skirt to get more comfortable on the bench, or her habit of touching my arm with her soft fingers whenever she wanted to make a point, all of which happened often that year but never before. If it was intentional, in order to keep me interested in the piano, it worked.

After graduation, and my application to a music program in college, Mom wasn’t as pushy about keeping up with the piano. I was busy with my summer job and Mom seemed too tired to practice since she had more than the usual number of students whose parents pushed for summer remedial classes. It wasn’t until the end of the summer, just before I left for college, that Mom left me with a memory that furnished my imagination for the next four months.

Mom and Dad were going out for a big get together. As usual, after some significant preparations, Mom was ready to go but Dad’s efforts weren’t up to snuff so she sent him upstairs to do a proper job. Exasperated, she turned to me, took my hand, and led me to the piano.

“Oh, that man,” she sighed. “Let’s play something to wash my stress away.”

I sat down at the near end of the bench while Mom walked around to the other end. She had difficulty sitting in her tight dress. Pinching the material between her fingers, she barely won a struggle to tug it higher so she could sit down. But she eventually won and the victory pleased me as I watched the hem climb above Mom’s knees and higher, inch by inch, until the top of her nylons were exposed.

After Mom sat down she began shuffling through the music books leaning against the piano in front of us. My eyes, however, were aimed between her exposed thighs, following the black straps that clipped onto the wide band of thicker nylon, nestled against the softest flesh I had ever seen, and disappeared into the darkness of Mom’s dress.

Mom couldn’t seem to find the right music to relieve the stress my father had created and flipped back and forth through several books before she finally found a suitable piece. I didn’t mind. I could have looked at the straps holding up her nylons or, more accurately, the inner sanctity of her thighs, forever.

“Pay attention, John,” Mom chided, readying her hands on the keys. I did the same, though I was loathe to tear my eyes from between her legs. “Do you remember this one?” she asked.

I nodded, and Mom began to play. We had to begin twice because I fumbled the keys but Mom was patient, even smiling while waiting for me to start again.

It was a familiar piece, a duet I knew by heart and which required little effort on my part, just to play along to Mom’s lead. My eyes soon strayed beneath the keyboard to appreciate the narrow gap between Mom’s legs which briefly widened whenever her foot was applied to one of the pedals. I thanked the stars that Mom was playing more energetically than usual, lifting her foot high off the pedal rather than slipping it on and off, probably because she was wearing high heels. This minor difference, amplified many times, caused her dress to slip higher on her thigh whenever her knee lifted. Near the end, when Mom was playing with particular enthusiasm, a dark strip poked through from underneath her dress. Her panties.