|
The Piano
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
The Piano
by
Mehr Mizrabi
[Copyright - February 1995]
I started piano lessons when I was in college. The first time I
heard Bach I became mesmerized. By it's fatalistic elegance.
Each chord seemed inevitable. And my affinity for the music made
it inevitable that I take lessons.
I liked Mrs Markovsky as a teacher. Middle-aged and very
patient. I think I went to her more for her personality than for
her musical prowess. Not that she was deficient in either.
After a few months we started having sex.
It started innocently. The physical caressing that is. I sought
her help with the backaches that I got during long practice
sessions. ``I don't want my back to suffer on account of my
Bach,'' I told her.
My posture was incorrect. She observed me closely as I played
and then gently pressed my back into a more correct position.
But then she left her hand there, on my back, till I had finished
the piece.
There was little physical contact between us after that. At
least for a while. We had never talked much. We communicated
through music. When I would start playing, the notes would be
harsh and arrhythmic. But then I would relax and play delicately
with great emotion. I would hold each note for as long as I
could and press each key tenderly. She always seemed moved.
Then one evening I saw her at the pool. She was climbing out as
I got there. Her face was flushed and she was out of breath.
Her brown shoulder-length hair was wet and seemed plastered. She
looked lithe and healthy. And I became aware of her as a sexual
being.
Once we were playing a duet and I was sitting on the left. Then
ignoring the score I moved my right hand past hers so that I was
several octaves higher than I should have been. My elbow touched
her arms lightly. The music became slower. And then stopped.
When I looked up she was looking at me. We looked into each
other for some time. My breathing became conscious, and I sensed
a dull ache in the upper part of my chest.
Still probing her eyes, I took her left hand in my right and
started massaging it gently. I rolled the flesh on her hand.
Her fingers were long and pale. Then I scratched her featureless
palm with my nails. She was passive for some time and then she
took my hand and hugged it against her warm soft breasts. As her
grip loosened I caressed her dark hair. And her long neck. And
her soft face. Her long well-defined nose, her taut cheeks, and
her thin lips. Her large angelic eyes stared at something
distant. Her face was frozen in an expression of expectation and
anxiety. And it was warm.
Then I heard a car in the driveway. I left as her husband walked
in, without finishing the lesson. That night, I stayed up late,
practising. Playing the piano had become an erotic act.
When I arrived the next week the door was open. I walked in and
sat at the piano. It was a crisp fall evening. I could hear the
faint chirping of birds outside. Otherwise it was quiet.
I was warming up with the Bach minuets when I heard Mrs
Markovsky's damp feet on the carpet. She was wearing a dark blue
terricloth bath-robe, loosely tied at her waist. Her brown hair
was wet. I stopped playing. She walked over and then sat down
on my lap. She smelt clean, of shampoo. Her face was soft, cold
and feminine. Her breasts against my chest warm. I played with
her ears, rubbed her neck with my finger-tips. Her eyes were
closed. And she looked like she was concentrating on a hard
musical problem.
I made her get off me and then took off my clothes. I felt
naked. And embarassed. And unconstrained. And hard. We sat on
the soft felt Persian carpet with our backs against a couch. She
still had her terricloth robe on, with one breast exposed. She
rubbed her hands on my chest and then my groin. Her eyes were
cast down. Finally she moved to my hardness and caressed its
underside with her hand. She played it like a violin fiddle,
staring at it intently. I lifted up her flushed face. We made
eye contact. And kissed.
Then I eased her out her bath-robe. And touched her softness. I
moved my hand up and down along it. Her eyes were closed now and
she was breathing audibly. Taking in gulps of air. She threw
her head back so that her brown damp hair was spread across the
couch, and then started moaning quietly. One of her hands was on
my hand, slowing it down. With the other she distractedly
stimulated my nipples and my crotch.
The Markovsky's lived in a quiet wooded area. It was a clear
evening and the sun cast a long red rectangle into the living
room across her perfect feet. I kept rubbing her for several
minutes. Or perhaps hours. I don't know. I could never keep
track of time in such situations. I just sat deliriously
stimulated taking in the sight of her perfect slender body on
that perfect Persian felt carpet. The room was filled with the
light clean smell of her freshly bathed skin. The subtle
fragrance of moisture and soap.
Soon she was pushing my hand into herself. I stopped, and stared
into her eyes. Then I tried to move her closer to me. She got
up and then slowly sat on me. She was warm and moist inside
where she squeezed and massaged me with her muscles. An ache
built up near my groin. And then exploded. When my climax ended
my head ached from exhaustion.
Mrs Markovsky was now hugging me tightly. Then she became very
still. And started moaning and rocking gently. And then
bucking. She bucked for several minutes.
After I withdrew we lay on the carpet staring at each other.
Searching for meaning in all of this. After that I played some
of the older pieces. I was surprised how well I played them even
with her sitting on my lap.
|
|
