“Maestro,” she says, in a posh voice. “Won’t you take a seat?”
I fall back onto the piano stool. Mum follows me, straddling my lap with her legs hooked around me. She bows her head to kiss me, her gentle weight holding me down on the stool. The lace dress bunches over my waist in our embrace.
“I’m really proud of you,” Mum says. She runs her hands over my back under my shirt. “For the way you’ve behaved this trip. You take everything in your stride.”
“I try to.”
“And you made me feel really comfortable last night,” Mum goes on. She straightens up in my lap, looking down at me. “You were a gentleman.”
“I had to be,” I tell her. “I had a proper lady in bed with me.”
“A proper lady?”
“Yes.” I run a hand up one of her arms to her shoulder. Skin like silk.
Mum smiles. I watch as she pries her fingers under the straps of her dress and slides them over her shoulders onto her upper arms. My body is alive under her weight.
She raises each arm out of its strap in turn and, inch by inch, she lets the dress fall down her torso to her waist, exposing her gleaming torso and strapless bra. I breathe slowly, taking her in. She reaches back to unclasp the bra. It comes away like paper—and now her top half is completely bare.
My mother’s breasts are a foot from my face, closer now than they had been last night. I can make out their minutiae in the weak light: rich skin like summer sand, formed into textured bells with dark areolas and, in their centres, protruding nipples. They are things of perfect contour.
“Do you want to touch them?” Mum asks. She reaches down for my hands. “I’d like you to.”
I take her breasts in my hands. The warm flesh fills my palms, soft to the touch, sculpted by my fingers as I adjust and revise my grip. Mum leans in to kiss me. I roll her nipples between my fingers and knot my tongue around hers. Her breaths on my mouth and face are ragged, and soon she is drawing air to the rhythm of my kneading.
She stops kissing me to unbutton my shirt. It falls to the studio floor.
So there we are, both topless. I pull her into me. Our bodies touch, her breasts compressing against my exposed neck and chest. Skin glides over skin. Mum is more petite in my arms when she is bare like this. I slide my arms around her satin back.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
She plants a kiss on my earlobe. “Yes.”
I hold her. Don’t let go, I tell myself, and I think she hears me.
London is only growing wilder outside the studio window. The screaming wind and tearing rains form a surreal contrast to our silent embrace. Sometimes we kiss, but mostly I just cradle her and feel the beat of her body against my own. She nestles her chin in my hair.
It is my privilege.
“I love you,” we say to one another. Once, twice, a third time: “I love you.”
On occasion we hear a number of students pass down the corridor, chattering in that heightened sort of pitch which betrays drunkenness or adrenaline. Laughter rings about the Academy. I suppose Mum and I are far from the only ones settling in for the long haul.
“Do you think about home much?” Mum asks me, late into the evening.
“Sometimes. But we haven’t been gone long. Do you miss it?”
“I don’t know, I forgot how big London really is.”
“How so?”
She adjusts herself in my arms.
“When I first came here I was so damn excited,” she says. “I still remember getting off that plane and onto a bus. It felt like I’d flown to some new world. Over the horizon. A different planet.”
I cling to her scent.
“I was young and stupid and I got my heart broken,” Mum goes on. “But after Shibuya rejected me, I went out into the streets and looked at all the London commuters, and you know what I thought?”
“What did you think?”
“I thought oh, it’s okay. I wasn’t even that sad. Because when I looked around at all these countless people going about their countless days, it just hit me how many options I still had. How much life there was to live. Fuck the piano. I could do anything… then I went home, and we had such a small house. Such a small town. Of course I went back to the piano.”
I process her words. “It seems obvious what to do, then.”
“Does it?”
“Yes. Once we fly home, we move.”
She laughs. “We can’t just move.”
“Sure we can. Let’s go into the city somewhere. Fuck the small town. And the cafe. Let’s move to the city and watch the commuters.”
Mum looks down at me. Her eyes shine. “But you always loved the country.”
“I can learn to love the city.”
She smiles at me, nods, and laughs. For a second she looks around the dimly-lit studio as though making sense of the space, then she leans in to kiss me. Her lips roam my chin, cheeks and nose, and across the ridge of my brow.
A moment later she says, “I can feel you, honey.”
“You can feel me?”
Mum nods. She moves a hand down my torso to the hem of my tuxedo trousers. My muscles tighten where I sit. Her shadowy hand unclasps my belt and pulls it free from my waist. Its metal buckle gleams. She drops it to the floor.
“I can feel you pressing into me,” Mum tells me. “Pressing into my thighs.”
And she rises from my lap, extricating herself from my body to stand before the piano stool. As she lifts her weight from me, my trousers swell under the pressure of my rising erection. I sit in place, staring up at my half-naked mother in this small London studio. My face is flushed now. There are hot pits of arousal in my stomach and pelvis.
“Is it any wonder?” I ask her. “I had a proper lady in my lap.”
Mum smiles. Then she drops to her knees with a gentle thud and approaches me where I sit, inching across the carpet until she is kneeling right before the piano stool. Her eyes find mine. My whole body is tense as I watch.
Her gaze runs down to my trousers. “May I?”
I wave my hand: go ahead.
Mum leans in, her head a breath away from my crotch. The image is very hard to process. She passes her hands around my bare waist, down past my hips to my tuxedo trousers, and over the fabric of my thighs. She pauses here, teasing me with anticipation, before laying one hand right overtop of my lap. The sudden pressure on my erection makes me shudder.
My head pounds. We are the eye of the city storm.
“I can feel your cock,” Mum whispers, almost to herself. There’s a note of disbelief in her voice.
She takes off my trousers next, her fingers undoing every button in one fluid motion, and we kiss while I’m in only my underwear.
Then she relieves me of this final garment.
My cock stands up without restraint. There’s a sudden chill about my thighs. I clench every muscle in my legs, dazed by this strange world I have found myself inhabiting. My mother has my pants around my ankles. I am throbbing in my arousal, my shaft standing tall with blood and anticipation.
Mum watches me squirm.
“Can I touch you?” she asks.
I give a shaky nod.
She lowers her gaze to my erection, leans an inch closer, and her pianist’s fingers are upon me. They encircle my shaft like velvet. Mum leans her face over me, so close that I can feel her breaths on the head of my cock, and she lets a long string of saliva fall down from her lips.
I lean my head back with a soft exhalation. Mum draws her hand down the length of my member and up again, spreading the wet warmth of her saliva everywhere, from the trimmed roots of my pubic hair right up to my tip. She repeats her slow pump once, twice, and a third time; and with each she starts to move her hand faster. The sticky sound of her progress is enough to make me dizzy.
“Fuck…” I shudder where I sit. My hands grip the sides of the piano stool with white knuckles. “Oh, God.”
“Look at me, baby.”
I meet my mother’s eyes. She smiles at me softly, without a hint of embarrassment, as though I had just complimented a homemade dinner. I watch her, and try to imagine this woman back in our little Australian home. I find it almost impossible. Mum is different now than I’ve ever known her.
All the while I stare at her, she continues pumping my cock with one hand. The image of her is one which I want to hide away and keep forever: topless and open to my intimacy, touching me like a lover in the dull light of a smartphone torch—and all of it in this strange land far from home with a storm raging outside our window.
“You’re stunning,” I tell her.
She quickens her pace at my erection. “You’re beautiful too.”
“I don’t know how much longer…”
“Whenever you’re ready,” she says. “Whenever you want, honey.”
My body has reached a plateau of pleasure I hadn’t thought possible. There are goosebumps down every inch of my skin. The hairs on my neck are standing. My heart is beating in every part of my body at once: thump-thump-thump. I quicken my breaths as I feel my conscious mind tilting, veering off course in the approach of my orgasm.
Mum puts her second hand on my cock too, stroking faster. She leans closer, so that I have to widen my thighs to fit her shoulders, and lets a fresh string of saliva fall onto my cock. My legs twitch. There are sirens outside. I am bound to this piano stool by a complete sensory overload.
I couldn’t move if I wanted to.
“Now,” I say. My voice breaks. “I’m gonna cum.”
“Don’t hold it. Don’t hold it, baby.”
I writhe in place. My fingers splay. Mum angles my member towards her waiting breasts, draws her hands down my length one final time, and I hit my climax with a shudder. A gentle spurt of hot cum oozes from my urethra and runs down to her fingers, then the rest of my orgasm follows with force.
Strings of white semen spatter Mum’s chest and breasts where she kneels. Her hands grip the base of my cock as it pulses, again and again, showering her with my arousal. I cannot begin to process the sudden fragility which hits my body, numbing my mind and burning my joints like a hundred shots of cognac. I cry out with the pleasure of it.
“Oh, sweetie.”
Mum grips me tight. She runs her hands up the length of my member to draw the last drops of cum from its depths, then she lets go of me at last. My cock twitches. My whole body is fatigued.
“Was that okay?” she asks.
“Yeah… God, Mum.”
We both look down at the thick mess on her chest. Semen tracks down her body in dollops, over the shapes of her breasts and onto the plain of her stomach. There is a web across her collarbone. Mum cups her hands by her belly button to prevent anything from trickling too far down her figure.
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