Shibuya’s Sonata: A Mom/Son Novella by mildlyaroused

Shibuya’s Sonata: A Mom/Son Novella by mildlyaroused

Indulge in the steamy taboo tale of a mother and son's forbidden passion in Shibuya's Sonata. This captivating novella explores the depths of desire and the complexities of family relationships. Dive into this adult sex story that will leave you breathless and craving more.<br/> A note to my lovely reader: This is another slow-burn, and this one is even slower. We’re talking upwards of 10k words before any real eroticism. Shibuya’s Sonata is by far the most ambitious erotic undertaking I’ve made yet, not just in length but in the complexity of story and drama. I will say up front that, on one or two occasions, I prioritised the story over the erotic nature of some sexual encounters. In any case, let me offer my horniest sympathies to those who skip ahead or turn back, and a generous thank you to all of you. Enjoy! Xx

Syncopation – /ˌsɪŋkəˈpeɪʃn / – a temporary displacement of the regular metrical accent in music caused typically by stressing the weak beat.

———

Shibuya’s Sonata: A Novella

The world rolls by like old film: hazy in the rain, flecked by urban grit, lit by shop windows and looming offices. I have the impression that my taxi driver once dreamt of being a racer. He has a knack and an apparent enthusiasm for finding impossible gaps in the evening traffic. Lane to lane, alley to alley. The GPS can’t keep up.

When a composer asks for legatissimo, they are asking me to play as smoothly as I possibly can. That’s how the taxi driver operates, on and off the accelerator like a peach.

I lean my forehead on the window and sigh. “Is it always this bloody congested?”

“Listen to yourself, lad. Is it always this bloody congested?” The driver laughs. His wrinkled eyes find me in the rear-view mirror. “This is London, son. Built for horses, not steel boxes.”

“Yeah, well… This steel box is your livelihood.”

“Ha, I’m not so guilty.” The driver runs his hand over the dashboard. “She’s an old beaut, this one. It’s the modern vehicles that cause the fuss. Twice my size.”

“Yes. Aren’t they?”

We come to a stop at a set of lights. Raindrops accumulate on the windscreen. I wind my window down an inch in search of the smell of rain, but all I find is petrol and the distant earthiness of a cigarette. A pity. The scent of morning rain gets me going when I’m back home. It sounds like tiny feet on the awning outside my bedroom window, and smells like the fresh springs up the hill. I’m a small-town boy, through to my bones.

“You’ve had her a long time, then?” I ask the driver. The car is indeed very small. My head almost brushes its roof. “Leather’s in good knick. She’s well kept.”

“She’s royalty, son. Fucking royalty. She was Pa’s before me, bless his ugly soul… Hotel somewhere up here, was it?”

“Oh, yes. Somewhere up here. Just pull over wherever’s easiest.”

He drops me on the curb by a Japanese takeaway, under the shelter of a covered bus stop. I thank him and hand my change through the passenger window, a few pounds extra for the company. Then he’s off to his next passenger and the amity dies as though played in staccato. I retreat to the seat of my bus stop and look around the street. Traffic flows on through the drizzle. Strangers pass with their hoods up, paper cups and newspapers fluttering by their feet in the wind.

I am struck there in the rain like a piano string: I am alone. Through to my bones.

It’s no use finding the hotel just yet. That’d mean practice, and it’d be tough to hit a respectable tempo with my hands this cold. So I shoulder my backpack and scurry from the bus stop through the rain, to the cover of the takeaway place. Linoleum floor, white walls and roof. Overexposed posters are peeling from the walls, advertising deals long since expired. The girl at the counter raises her eyebrows as I drip onto her floor. LEDs buzz overhead as though wounded.

I order a cup of miso soup.

The girl eyes me from between tendrils of dark hair. “What size?”

“I dunno. Whatever.”

“It’s your soup. Pick a size.”

“I don’t care. I just need something to warm my hands.”

“All right, then. Large.” She plucks a paper cup from its stack with a smile. “Most expensive.”

That’s fine by me. Mum will be paying.

The girl turns away to prepare my order. A hiss of steam, the bubble of boiling kombu.

I lean against a tiled wall, as far from the open door as I can get without jumping the counter. Still the wind finds its way in to bite at my trousers. At least the heartbeat of a kitchen is reassuring. It reminds me of home: all the right sounds and smells. We live in a flat above Dad’s cafe.

The girl returns to the countertop. She cocks her head. “So, then. Cold hands?”

“It’s a cold day.”

“Yeah it is.” She smiles. “It’s meant to clear up, though. They’ve got the lantern festival in Pimlico tonight…” A pause. “I need a date.”

I look up from my fingernails to this girl behind the counter. The slightest of hesitations before I say what I must: “I hope you find someone.”

“Ouch.” She folds her arms with a laugh, apparently unfazed. “What’s that accent? Australian?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The cold must be a shock to the system, I suppose.”

I tip an invisible hat in her direction.

She slinks off to finish my soup, and brings it back with steam billowing from its cup. I scrounge up some cash from my jacket pockets, but she slides the cup over the counter before I can offer anything.

“It’s on me,” she says. She tucks her tendrils away from her eyes. “Stay warm, then.”

The miso soup comforts me all the way to the hotel. It’s only halfway down the street that I realise the girl’s written her phone number around the cup in permanent marker. I run my thumb over the inky digits. Steam in my nostrils. Maybe the lanterns will be visible from my hotel window.

Even if they are, I won’t see them. My head will be bowed to the piano as though it is my god.

———

The hotel manager is set to give us a tour of the premises. His tuxedo clings to his body as though it’s his skin, tight to every limb. I don’t pay much attention. Mum is looking very European, in a padded swing style coat and ushanka hat. She rises to her tiptoes to kiss me on both cheeks when I first arrive.

“My dear boy.” She brushes my soaked jacket down. “We were beginning to worry.”

“Sorry. Heathrow was packed. Slow through security.”

We were meant to be in England three days ago. That would have given me ample time to settle and prepare for my first performance. But our flight from Australia was grounded in a storm, and we spent three days in Bangkok. It was a nightmare finding alternate routes to London. Mum put us on different airlines in the end.

The manager isn’t impressed with our pleasantries. He leans close with an oily voice. “Madam, I am touched by the bond you share with your son. But my schedule now, it really is quite strict…

“Yes. Yes.” Mum lays a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go, then.”

The manager walks us around the marble reception, listing off every painted portrait on the walls; he guides us through the halls to the kitchen, dining rooms and offices, to the rear deck and out into the sodden gardens. Here, I breathe deep. This is better for my country nose. Red brick paths snake around towering plumes of bush and thicket, underneath overgrown pergolas and floral arbours. The rain is still heavy, so we don’t stray far, but I fantasise about hiding in these gardens come my performance tomorrow. Let all the guests sit and wait for me while I smell the flowers.

“Best for last,” the manager says. He leads us back inside. “The ballroom.”

Mum ushers me on after him. “Good, good. The ballroom. I was beginning to worry…”

The manager stops outside a set of looming mahogany doors. “Before we enter, I must make myself clear.” He looks very proud of himself. “This room is not to be used for practice by your prodigy. You will find a baby grand in your room. That will be perfectly sufficient.”

I am starting to dislike him quite a lot.

“I’m the prodigy?” I ask, and laugh. My eyes flit to Mum. “I’m the prodigy, Mum.”

“Mm. You’re well on your way, darling.”

The manager opens the doors to the ballroom and strides in like a showman, arms held wide. Mum follows him through a jungle of ornate white chairs and circular tables, but I stay at the threshold. I’ve never liked performance halls without audiences; the barren space seems too vast to fill with only my music. So I just watch as Mum checks the condition of the piano and acoustics of the room.

When she returns she gives me a smile. “You’d better get dry, love. Then we’ll eat. Mr. Canossa here has invited us to dine with him.

“My pleasure, of course.” The manager closes and locks his precious ballroom. “Now. We’ll have the piano tuned in the morning. Your performance is at ten, I think?”

“Yes,” I say. “But I’d like the tuner out by eight. I need to get a feel for the piano.”

“Oh… but this just isn’t possible. We are very busy, my young friend.”

I look up at him. His neck is bent to look back down at me. This world is full of difficult men; but difficult men could never scare me like a complex polyrhythm or tremolo.

“I will be here at eight,” I tell him. “If the tuner’s not gone I’ll practise from right beneath his hammer.”

Canossa chuckles. “I hope you are this assertive in your playing, boy.”

I shrug. Maybe I will be. Maybe I won’t be, and the ballroom will collapse around me as my throat closes up and my fingers drown in sweat. The audience will throw champagne glasses as the final bar of my devilish song comes to its end. Splinters of glass in my hair.

———

My performance tomorrow is the first of three I have ahead of me in London, and by every metric it’s the smallest: a hundred rich guests, for whom such a show is customary at the hotel. To the wealthy folk I am just one more nameless musician.

The second is on Tuesday, at the Royal Academy of Music. My audience will be twice as large, but this causes me less stress than the fact that I must perform for truly musical folk: experts, scholars, students. I am told my concert will be integrated into the semester’s coursework. The sweat on my neck will be scrutinised.

The third performance is the crescendo of my stay, and the devil in my mind. It is the creature which keeps me up at night and hollows out my cheekbones. This performance will take place on Friday at the Royal Albert Hall. Thousands of waiting red seats will be filled, a great dome of glass above me. It will be the highest or lowest point of my young career, and nothing in between.