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Piano Mom: A Story of Incest part-3.

Stiff, and playing with her breath caught in her throat, Mom gradually conquered the tension, her body relaxing even though she was breathing was fast. Slowly, I rubbed my closed fingers and palms under her breasts, wishing she hadn't worn a bra but even so still barely able to retain control of my own breathing. Throughout the rise, I continued to gently rub the bottom swell of her breasts, never squeezing, never gripping, just rubbing the soft underside of her tits, until the crescendo was breached and the music slowly rolled down to the gentle lap of continuous, evening waves. I turned the page and returned my hands to Mom's waist, matching the slow return of my breathing with hers, feeling the music through her.

It wasn't long before the music began to rise again. My hands massaged Mom's waist, fingers stretching around so far they almost met over her belly. I could sense Mom's anticipation that I was about to raise my hands to grasp her breasts directly above. Her expectation was so intense I could physically feel it in her muscles even as she continued to play with a sensitivity I'd never heard from her before.

But my hands didn't rise. When Mom reached the same point up the musical slope where I had first cupped her breasts, I moved my hands back and then downward instead, slowly scraping over her hips to make sure she could feel my progress. Down I ventured, onto the top of her thighs, dragging her dress toward her knees, until my hands were far enough they could slip between her legs.

With exaggerated movements of my fingers, I clawed the dull, gray material of the dress up until it was all bunched in my hands. After pausing for a moment, I released the dress and slipped my hands underneath, opening and stretching my fingers to clasp Mom's inner thighs, palm down on each leg. Slowly, in time with the music, I moved my hands in until they bracketed Mom's panties. Then, after another brief pause, I began pressing in, squeezing her panties between the edges of my two hands, puffing them out, like two hamburger patties being forced out of a bun but unable to escape, prevented by the thin wall of her panties.

Faster and faster I squeezed as the music rose, always gently, and never moving my hands onto the panties, just pressing from the side to squeeze Mom's pubes together, then relaxing, again and again and again. I couldn't help humping the fleshy part at the back of Mom's dress. I tried to stop myself but I couldn't. I twisted my hips in small thrusts, in tandem with my squeezing hands, faster and faster, with the music, always with the music, and then ...

Mom cried out.


A single cry and then the music stopped, echoing throughout the room as Mom's cry subsided, as my hips stopped moving and my seepage waned, until Mom stopped quivering between my hands.

Soon, it was quiet except for the ragged sound of our breathing. Slowly, that returned to normal. Reluctantly, I climbed off the bench, knowing I had to go. I kissed Mom's neck, said goodnight, and turned to walk up the stairs behind me, knowing I had to escape before my father came in and my wet pants betrayed me. I heard mom belatedly mumble when I was halfway up the staircase.

"Goodnight, Jon."

Over the Edge

The next morning, I lay in bed wondering if last night had been a dream, but knowing it wasn't. I hadn't faced Mom at the end but I had to now. I would be expected at breakfast before we all left for Church.

My apprehension was ill-founded. Mom behaved as if everything was normal. I thought it was just an act that would soon fray under its own tension, but it didn't. Somehow, Mom really acted as if last night hadn't changed our lives. The entire day played out like any other Sunday, through Church, the afternoon and even supper. Dad was feeling better but worsened after dinner and repaired to his Lazy Boy, snuggling under the comforter Mom draped over him before walking to the couch and taking my hand. After tugging me to my feet, Mom pulled me across the floor.

"You don't mind if I drag your company away do you Father?" Mom asked.

"Not at all," Dad looked up from his book, smiling. "Do what you want with him," he waved with his free hand.

In the piano room, Mom pushed me toward the piano. "Get the music ready. I'll be right down."

I opened the book to our piece and sat down after running to the living room to grab one of the flatter, silky pillows to place on the bench. Mom returned a moment later. There was something different but I couldn't see what it was. Had she washed her face, freshened her lipstick? I couldn't tell but something was different.

Mom stopped by the bench and slipped her slippers from her feet. The muscles in her calves tensed prettily and my breath caught when she looked at the pillow placed mostly on but partly off the front of the bench.

"Is that for me?" Mom asked.

"Yes," I nodded.

"Thank you," Mom said, crooking the top of her toes around the ankle of her other foot and sliding them up her calf. "Are you ready to play?" she asked, looking down at the bench, already pulled away from the piano.

I nodded again, taken aback by Mom's sudden assertion of control. She dropped her hands to her side and pulled her summery, dark green dress with a loosely pleated skirt up, baring half her thighs as she stepped between the bench and the piano before sitting down on the pillow. Mom turned to look over her shoulder.

"Sit and play, Jon," she said, before turning back to the piano.

I walked towards her in my summer shorts, and swung my barefooted legs over the bench one at a time to seat myself firmly behind her, immediately noting the greater expanse of fleshy behind available now that Mom was sitting on a pillow, as I had planned. Mom put her hands on the keyboard, ready to play, then turned her head as if waiting.

"Go ahead," I said.

Mom didn't move. I repeated myself but she still didn't budge.

I raised my hands and placed them on Mom's hips. Immediately, she faced the piano and began to play. I moved my hands up and down her waist, enjoying the swell of flesh out to her hips and pushing further around to splay my fingers across her tummy. I could feel the large indent that formed Mom's navel and wished I could lay my bare hands on it, imagining teeny blond hairs, though Mom was a brunette, running from there over her soft belly until they thickened into the brown bush covering her pussy. I knew her pussy hair was brown, I'd seen it poking out the leg of her panties.

Mom continued playing as if that was all we were doing, playing the piano, despite the extent of my roaming hands. It was some time before I moved my hands up to cup Mom's breasts and received a small shock. Her breasts were much softer and I could feel their shape better than before. Mom was not wearing a bra!

I could only see the side of Mom's face but it seemed to me that the corner of her mouth was definitely turned up into a smile. I couldn't be sure because it disappeared quickly and then I wondered if I had imagined it. Real or not, Mom was obviously not bothered by me flagrantly caressing the bottom of both her breasts. If there was any doubt about her allowing this transgression, it disappeared when Mom turned the page herself. I had forgotten all about it.

Encouraged, I formed my hands completely around her tits and began a gentle, squeezing massage, like I was handling two erotically shaped water balloons that required delicate care lest they break. Cautiously, so as not to disturb her playing, I laid my head sideways on Mom's back and continued my loving embrace. When I felt Mom's arm lift to turn the page again, I slipped both hands up to take a firmer grip of each breast, my fingers circling around those incredible little extensions I had only fondled in my dreams. Now, with a simple loosening of my grip, my fingers slid up to close around Mom's wonderous nipples.

Fuck. This was so great. I hunched my boner into the fleshiness of Mom's ass as I lightly pinched and rolled her nipples through the dress. In my mind, I was holding Mom's bare tits and her nipples protruded beyond my circling fingers at least an inch. I was going to cum. It was swelling up and up. I couldn't stop it unless I chucked that image out of my mind, quit humping against her bottom, and let go of her tits. I couldn't do any of them, so my jiz welled up until it flooded out of my cock, like a tidal swell rather than a burst, washing it's stickiness into my shorts.

When my surroundings came back into focus I realized Mom had stopped playing. I was still holding her tits but my fingers were loose and no longer moving. I just held them as I recovered my breath, leaning against her back, blanketed by a wonderful feeling of bliss.

I never wanted to let go but I realized I had to clean myself up. As mom started to play the piece over, I released her breasts and reluctantly pulled away.

"Is something the matter," Mom asked.

"No, I just have to go to the bathroom," I answered sheepishly.

"Hurry back," she said, her voice low and strangely urgent.

Upstairs, I pulled my shorts off and cleaned up the mess I had made, then tossed my shorts and underwear into the laundry hamper, still covered with my sticky cum. I walked half naked down the hall to my room, my swaying cock beginning to stiffen as I imagined myself feeling Mom up while she played the piano. Quickly, I removed my shirt and put on a pair of pajamas, and half ran back downstairs.

"That's a good idea," Mom said, turning to look at me when she heard me coming down the stairs.

I resumed my position straddling Mom's hips, the thought of Mom wearing a loose pair of pajamas with nothing on underneath greatly appealing to me and my stiffening companion.

"Maybe we should get changed before we start practicing tomorrow night," I suggested.

"That sounds like a good idea," Mom concurred. "Tomorrow night? Do you think we need to practice every night?"

"I think it would be a good idea," I said. "We want to perform our best, don't we?"

"Of course we do," Mom breathed.

I snuggled up to Mom and noticed that her dress, which had been smoothed under her bottom and legs, was bunched up behind her. She was no longer sitting on it. As Mom played, I gathered the dress in my hands carefully so she wouldn't feel me doing it. After a quick glance toward the living room, I cautiously raised the dress. I could see the waistband of Mom's panties, just barely, running across the pillow. They must have been small ones because that's as far up as they came. Mom's crack was barely visible, squished between the pulpy flesh of her upper cheeks.

I leaned forward to lay my head on Mom's back again. Could I get my hands under her dress? Of course. Could I get away with it? Of course. Why else ...
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