Kingston

 

 

I watch as our little piano girl examines our Steinway concert grand piano, her thin fingers caressing the keys, but barely touching them, as if she was afraid she could hurt them. All eyes are on her, observing her peculiar behavior as she fondles the instrument. No one has said a word since we brought her up to the music room, a room that features nothing but the spic and span grand piano surrounded by white walls and a few armchairs lined up against the wall opposite the windows.

"This is a Steinway Concert Grand Model D," the girl gasps without turning around. Her eyes are glued to the piano lid. "It's so... beautiful."

"Isn't it?" my mother agrees, now walking closer to her.

"You know I took a few lessons myself while I was still at Juilliard," she says. "But I never came close to being any good. It's just a hobby for me."

Miss Hill looks at my mother, her eyes wide with curiosity.

"So it does get played?" she asks.

My mother nods. "I toy around with it once in a while. Just to relax, you know. Always playing the same few melodies. It would be a pity if no one would ever use it."

The girl nods. "Yes, it would be!"

"Kingston can play, too," my mother adds, causing all heads to turn in my direction. "He took lessons for a few years while growing up."

I shake my head. It's true that I was forced to take lessons as a child, but it must have been years since I touched a piano.

"Nothing to brag about," I say, trying to divert attention away from me.

 

My mother smiles at Miss Hill, and I can tell that she's completely in her element. Ever since my brother and I were young children, she's been talking about how much she misses the world of the performing arts. She's always been involved in some kind of fundraising and charity activity to support students of the arts, especially those who - like Miss Hill - don't have the monetary access to lessons. My father doesn't support her love for these activities, but there's very little he can say about it now that her burden as a mother and homemaker has lessened.

"Please," she says, gesturing toward the piano bench. "Play for us."

Miss Hill nods, clasping her black folder as she carefully takes her seat on the bench. She places the folder on the music rack and begins to adjust the bench, while my mother beckons for the rest of us to sit down.

Again, I make sure not to sit next to Gloria. I don't want to deal with her exasperated breaths as she endures Miss Hill's performance. Until just a few minutes ago, I would have been on the same page as her and have shown equally low interest in this.

But that was before this girl showed up. This sweet, innocent girl who is the complete opposite of the woman I am to marry. She's raw and pure, incapable of hiding how intimidated she is by this whole situation. Her pale complexion, the chocolate brown hair, and her big green eyes, captured me from the very first moment I saw her.

She's different.

And I like different.

She's also as forbidden as can be, because messing around with her could put this entire charade at risk.

And I fucking love forbidden.

She's taken her seat on the bench and now looks up, those big, beautiful eyes widened in question.

"Start with something simple and familiar," my mother answers her silent question. "Something classical that would be a good fit for some mellow background music."

"Debussy maybe?" the girl asks.

"Clair de lune!" my mother completes her suggestion. "That's a good one."

Miss Hill nods.

I watch her face as she places her dainty fingers on the keyboard. It's hard to tell, but I think she lets out a faint sigh as her fingertips touch the keys. I've never seen anyone taken by a simple instrument as much as she is right now. It's hauntingly beautiful to watch.

And sexy as fuck.

It seems she doesn't need her sheets for that one, as she just starts to play right away. She flinches when the first few very soft tunes echo through the room. As the melody speeds up, she closes her eyes and it seems as if she's the one following where the song goes instead of playing it herself. Her brown hair falls over her shoulders when she leans forward during the louder middle path and her lips part as if she was singing along. Her expression is so passionate that I cannot help but wonder if that is what she looks like when climaxing.

I want to make her look that way while she's pinned down beneath my rock-hard body.

My cock needs to knock it the fuck off.

I shift around on my chair, changing my seating position to hide the growing bulge in my crotch.

This is new. You'd think I'm suffering from blue balls, but my encounter with that sexy brunette from the club was not that long ago.

That's not it.

Yet, I've never reacted like this to the mere sight of a woman before. What the hell is happening here?

She doesn't even look that sexy in a traditional sense. Nothing about her screams sex like it does with the vixen from the club. Her dress looks worn out and I know that neither Gloria nor our mothers would ever want to be seen in something like that. There are even a few threads hanging out at the side right below her arm. I bet she didn't notice when she put it on before she came here. Her shoes look equally used and are just as much a telltale sign of her poverty as is the dress.

Her makeup is subtle and I'm sure she stepped it up a notch for today. I'm sure her lips are naked and I'm looking at her natural color, as I imagine them wrapped around my hard cock.

Her play intensifies, and she's long forgotten about our presence in the room. She's lost in the music, her upper body swaying along with the melody and her eyes are still closed, even at the sections I'd imagine are the hardest to play.

Her fingers remain on the last keys as she ends the song and freezes in a bent-over position, while the last note echoes through the room.

Even when my mother starts the applause and we chime in, the girl doesn't look up from the piano. Her eyes remain closed for a few more moments, before she finally opens them, casting a dreamy gaze across the piano lid. She almost looks as if she cannot believe that she was the one who just played that melody.

"Beautiful!" my mother praises, while Gloria barely lifts her eyes from her phone.

Finally, Miss Hill looks at us, a shy smile appearing on her face.

"A very common song, though," Gloria's father interjects. "Do you have anything more out of the ordinary? More complex?"

She looks at him, quiet for a few moments, as she ponders her reply. Just as she opens her mouth to say something, she's interrupted by Gloria's mother.

"Nothing too special, though," she says. "There's no need to get too esoteric, we still want people to recognize the music as their own. We'd like to play a few of their favorites."

She casts her husband a warning look and he shrugs.

"Yes, absolutely," Miss Hill says. "I have a few pieces in mind that are perfect for a romantic musical accompaniment, such as the 2nd movement of Beethoven's Pathetique or some of Chopin's more docile salon pieces."

"Chopin!" my mother sighs. "Oh, he is one of my favorites!"

The girl's face lights up.

"Mine, too," she says. "Personally, I'd suggest some of the Nocturnes - Opus 9 in e-flat major for example - or his preludes in F sharp major, Ab major and maybe even the Db major. Next to his waltzes, which could also be played to-"

"I think we get the idea, Miss Hill," my father interrupts her. "There's no need to get too much into the detail. I think Kingston and Gloria should have a say in this, as well."

He throws expectant looks first at me, then at Gloria, who manages just in time to fake interest in the whole conversation.

"What do you think?" my father asks. "Is there anything in particular you wish to hear?"

I gesture toward Gloria, implying that she should be the first to speak, but she just shrugs her shoulders.

"Classical sounds good, I guess," she says.

"I could also play John Williams variations or Phillip Glass," Miss Hill says, trying to catch Gloria's attention. "To add a modern touch to the repertoire."

Gloria furls her eyebrows. "Who?"

"Movie composers," I enlighten her. "Especially Glass, who has written a lot of piano pieces."

From the corner of my eyes, I can see Miss Hill nodding.

"I don't think we want to go in that direction," my mother interjects, speaking as if we just suggested turning the engagement party into an alternative rock concert. "Just show us a few more of your classical pieces."

Miss Hill nods quietly and closes her eyes to devote herself to another song.