Tuning Her Piano


Dan had said that the house was impressive. And it was. It was on the edge of the village, set back from the road. In fact, you couldn’t really see the house from the road. There were too many trees. But once you got past the trees, you could see that it was a house of some considerable size and quality.

I drove through the open gates, up the broad gravel driveway, and parked my car next to some Laurel bushes. Then I walked up to the front door and pressed the bell. When no one answered, I briefly wondered if I had the wrong house. The house on the other side of the road was also quite impressive. It was quite an impressive neighbourhood. But Dan had said that the woman’s house was called ‘The Beeches’. And that was definitely the name on the gate.

Dan had also warned me that the woman was a tad eccentric. He said that she had spoken in a sort of code when she called to make the booking. But, when she did eventually answer the door, I was still a bit surprised that she answered it dressed in a long satin robe and that she was carrying a martini glass in one hand.

‘Hello. Gosh, you came quickly,’ she said. ‘I do hope that you don’t always come quickly.’ And she laughed lightly and winked. And then she noticed my car. ‘Oh. Is that your car?’ she asked.

‘It is. Why? Should I not have parked there?’

‘Maybe just move it forward a bit,’ she said. ‘Just behind that Abelia hedge. My neighbour. Nosey old cow.’ And she tapped the side of her own nose and smiled.

I moved the car.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Come on in.’

I followed her into a large entry hall and then through a door into a sort of sitting room. ‘Martini?’ she said. ‘Or would you prefer something else? I have most things.’

I’m not really much of a drinker. I’ll have a beer now and then. But spirits and cocktails? Not really my thing. Also it wasn’t even four o’clock. And I still had the piano to tune. But she didn’t seem to need an answer. Before I had much of a chance to say anything, she was handing me a glass.

‘There you go. Cin-cin,’ she said.

Oh, well. I took a sip. Wow! Talk about fire water. ‘This is … very … umm … tasty,’ I said.

She just smiled. ‘I must say that you’re a little younger than I was expecting. Not that I’m complaining, you understand. Far from it. But still … Have you been doing this line of work for long?’

I told her that my grandfather had been in the business for many years and I had just sort of ‘drifted’ into it when I left school.

‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘I’ve certainly heard very good reports of your … umm … work. A couple of my girlfriends speak very highly of you. “One of the best,” Miranda says. So … no pressure then.’ And she smiled again. ‘I suppose you go to a gym, do you? Work out? Stuff like that?’

‘I swim competitively,’ I told her. ‘I’m not sure that I’m in danger of Olympic selection or anything, but I do OK.’

‘Yes. I bet you do,’ she said. ‘I bet you do.’ And she came and stood beside me and ran her manicured fingers over my shoulders and upper arms. ‘Oh, yes.’ And then she took another swig of her martini.

‘I have a pool,’ she said. ‘A little smaller than you are used to no doubt. But it’s heated. And, being indoors, it’s very private. The old cow next door can’t see a thing. Perhaps afterwards, you and I could … well …’

Dan had said that he seemed to recall from an earlier visit that the piano was a top-of-the-line baby grand. I looked around, but there was no sign of it. ‘Your piano …’ I said, trying to get back to the purpose of my visit.

She frowned. ‘My piano?’


‘Oh, my piano,’ she said. And she nodded. ‘Yes. My piano. Yes, I do have a piano. But I think that it may be a little out of tune. It doesn’t get played as often as it might do. My daughter used to play it. But since she went away … Well … you know. I should probably get someone in. Get someone to look at it. Why? Do you play?’

‘A bit,’ I said. ‘Although not as well as I would like to,’

‘I think that perhaps I should be the judge of that,’ she said. ümraniye escort ‘It’s just through here.’ And she opened a pair of doors that led into an even bigger sitting room. I was pleased to see that the piano was in a sort of alcove – away from direct sunlight and possible changes in temperature from the large windows that looked out across the garden.

She lifted the keyboard cover and propped up the sound board. ‘Be my guest,’ she said

I looked around for somewhere to put down my drink. ‘Oh … I’ll take that,’ she said.

I slid onto the piano stool, stroked an A below middle C, and listened carefully. It sounded OK. I played a few scales and a few arpeggios. The piano had a nice responsive action and a beautiful tone. And while there were a couple of notes that were perhaps a smidgen flat, the piano wasn’t seriously out of tune. ‘It’s a very nice instrument,’ I said.

I don’t know why, but I then launched into ‘My One & Only Love’, borrowing heavily from Oscar Peterson’s arrangement. I guess it was my party piece. Blame the martini, but I guess that I was showing off a bit.

‘Beautiful,’ she said when I had finished. And she leaned over and kissed me lightly on the side of my neck.

It was not unusual for clients to offer me a cup of tea or coffee while I worked. Or, on a hot afternoon, a cold drink – lemon and barley water or something like that. But she was the first client to make me a martini and then kiss me on the side of my neck. Oh well … Dan had warned me that she was a little eccentric.

‘Right. Well, I suppose that I had better get down to work,’ I said.

She smiled. ‘Yes. I guess so. Let’s go upstairs,’ she said.

Upstairs? Gosh, how many pianos did this woman have? Most people – even posh people – drew the line at one – especially if that one was a good quality baby grand. Mind you, my grandfather, who could never bear to see a piano abandoned, had three crammed into his small cottage. So there you go. You never can tell.

I followed her back out into the grand entrance hall and up the grand staircase to a landing that was about as big as many people’s sitting rooms. And then I followed her through another set of double doors into what, at first, appeared to be yet another sitting room. It was only after I had had a proper chance to look around that I realised that it was part of perhaps the biggest, most luxurious bedroom that I had ever seen

‘Oh dear. I suppose that I should have brought our glasses,’ she said. ‘Not to worry. We’ll just have to have fresh ones.’ And she opened what at first looked like a wardrobe but then turned out to be a fully-stocked bar. ‘Same again?’ she said. ‘It’s probably not a good idea to chop and change, is it?’

As she placed ice into a cocktail shaker and covered it with a generous slosh of Tanqueray gin and just the merest hint of Italian dry vermouth, she asked if I found the room warm enough.

Again, blame the martini, but I think that I might have misheard the question. ‘Yes. It is rather warm, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘Maybe take your shirt off,’ she suggested.

I laughed.

‘I’ve already taken mine off,’ she said. And she laughed too. And then she capped the cocktail shaker and gave it a gentle shake before filling two fresh martini glasses. ‘There you are,’ she said as she handed me one of the drinks. ‘Recipe more or less as before. Cin-cin.’

‘Umm … yes. Cin-cin,’ I echoed.

‘Don’t you believe me?’ she asked.

I think that I must have frowned. ‘Believe you?’

She smiled, and tugged gently at the sash of her satin robe. The robe fell open. ‘See? No shirt. In fact, not much at all. What do you think?’ she said. ‘Will I do?’

Not quite knowing what to say, I took a serious gulp of my drink.

I’m not sure if the earlier drink had already pre-primed my taste buds or what, but her latest rocket fuel concoction was brilliant: ice-cold and yet fiery; with hints of herbs and liquorice and something else that I couldn’t quite place. It flowed over my tongue, down my throat, and all the way to my stomach. pendik escort And then the warmth kept on going until it reached the already-extending tip of my cock. Bloody hell! And would she do? Would she ever!?

I guess that she had to be well into her 40s. In fact, she was probably closer to 50 than 40. And she was certainly no stick insect. But there was something very appealing about her full, womanly curves.

Her ample breasts were encased in a bra the colour of milky coffee. The lower panels of the bra were satin-like, and the upper panels were decorated with hot-pink embroidered flowers. And, between the cups, there was a small hot-pink bow. Her matching knickers had a satin front panel and more hot-pink embroidery on each side.

‘Yes, it is rather warm,’ she said. She moved closer to me, took my free hand, and placed it on her knicker-clad crotch. ‘As I am sure that you can tell.’ And then she kissed me.

It was probably at that point that we crossed the Rubicon. Well, we crossed something anyway. There was no way that we were going to be going back. We both took another serious swig of our drinks and placed our now near empty glasses on one of the side tables.

‘Now … where were we?’ she said. ‘Oh, yes.’ And she started to unbutton my shirt.

While she was doing that, I returned my hand to her knicker-clad crotch which was even warmer than it had been before – if that was possible. Using my pleasure finger, I pushed her gusset to one side and went in to explore her plumpish outer labia. And – oh yes! – they were everything that I had hoped that they would be. They even had just the right covering of sparse pubic thatch. And, between her beautiful outer lips, there was slippery perfection itself.

Once she had unbuttoned my shirt, she started unbuckling my belt. ‘I think that we should get your trousers off,’ she said softly. ‘You have something in there that is growing at an alarming rate. A fine example of the greater trouser python perhaps? You could have someone’s eye out with something like that.’ And once more she smiled her quiet smile.

‘Well … up to you,’ I said. ‘You’re in charge. This is all a bit new to me.’

‘Huh!’ she said. ‘A likely story.’

I let her remove my trousers. And, since it only seemed fair, I suggested that she might be more comfortable if I removed her knickers.

‘I like the way you think,’ she said.

With us now both naked from the waist down, we engaged in some more soft kisses while letting our fingers do the talking. I must say that she had a nice touch. And she seemed pretty happy with what my fingers were doing too. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Oh, fucking yes.’

Funnily enough, I had to agree with her: Oh, fucking yes.

She was my first ‘older woman’ – both figuratively and literally. My carnal experience up until that point had been limited to just three women – all of them younger than me. I think that Julia was 19 – perhaps 20. The other two were only slightly older. Twenty-one I think. Mind you, I could only lay claim to 22 birthdays myself. And now here I was with a woman who was probably old enough to be my mother.

Julia and Micha were both swimmers and had lean, muscular bodies. Lucy wasn’t a swimmer, but she was still pretty fit. And my new martini-drinking playmate? Well, she was an altogether softer proposition. She was by no means fat, but she did have parts that you could get a hold of. Her breasts, obviously – even when they were encased in her sexy bra. And she also had a slight belly and a delightfully plump pubic mound covered in soft hair.

And then there was her bum. While the fingers of my right hand continued to work away at her lubricious slot, dipping in and out of her hot hole, circling her clit, and spreading her juices from end to end and beyond, my left hand went off to see what she was hiding ‘out the back’.

I was not disappointed. Her right buttock was like the perfect pillow: just the right size, just the right softness. It was perfect. I could imagine myself, at the end of a busy day, curling up and resting bostancı escort my head right there. I was still contemplating this wonderful possibility when I noticed that she was now panting and gasping and giggling while trying to crush my hand between her thighs.

‘Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, fuck … yes!’ she said. And then she leaned on me. ‘Oh, fuck. That was fantastic. Fucking fantastic. But I’m not sure that my legs are going to hold me up for much longer.’

‘In that case, why don’t we put you on the bed,’ I suggested. ‘Perhaps face down. So that I can admire your beautiful arse.’

‘Is my arse beautiful?’

‘I think that it’s beautiful. In fact … it may well be the most beautiful arse that I have even seen.’

‘And will this admiration extend beyond just looking?’ she asked.

‘I think that it might do,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’

‘Well, I suppose that depends on you,’ she said. ‘But, personally, I think that it might be quite nice if … well … you know. You’re in charge.’

‘Am I? Well, in that case, I think that we might place a pillow beneath you.’ I grabbed a nice plump pillow and placed it under her hips. ‘Oh, yes. Perfect. And I think that I might just have to give that perfect arse a gentle smack. What do you think?’ And before she had a chance to say yea or nay, I gave her a couple of sharp taps, one on her right cheek, and then one on the left. And then another on the right. And another on the left.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve been very naughty, haven’t I? And that feels very nice.’

‘And, perhaps, if you spread your legs a little, I could finger your cunt at the same time.’

She spread her legs and I slipped a couple of fingers into her slippery slot, and then I dragged some of her magic juice back to her pulsating arsehole.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said.

Micha had occasionally enjoyed me fingering her arsehole. But Julia and Lucy both seemed to have a ‘front door only’ policy. Maybe my martini-drinking friend was about to surprise me. Maybe she too had a front door only policy. But I got the feeling that she was a starter for a finger and possibly more. Oh, well … nothing ventured.

I returned to her slippery slot and got my fingers really slicked up. And then it was back to her back door.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Oh, fucking yes. Stop teasing. Get in there.’

‘Sweet dreams are made of this,’ the Eurythmics’ voice in my head sang. ‘Who am I to disagree?’ But, of course, I wasn’t going to disagree. I wasn’t even going to hesitate. Blame it on the martini, but I was going in.

‘Oh, fuck yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’

I parted her legs a little further and, while I worked her beautiful arsehole with my thumb, I slid my hard cock between her plump and slippery cunt lips. It was heaven. Hot. Wet. Heaven. And then it was time, time to drive around to the tradesmen’s entrance. (Does a piano technician count as a tradesman? I guess so.)

‘Oh, yes,’ she said as the tip of my cock nosed into her back door. ‘Oh, yes. That’s fucking fantastic.’

Fucking fantastic or fantastic fucking? Take your pick. But it was certainly OK. And then, after she had had another orgasm – even noisier than the first – and I had sprayed her secret playground with the milk of human kindness, I said that I had better go and tune her piano.

‘My piano?’

‘Yes. There are a couple of notes that could do with a tweak,’ I said. ‘Nothing major.’

She looked ever so slightly puzzled. ‘Gosh. Really? Can you tune pianos too? You are a talented fellow, aren’t you?’

I went and sorted out her piano and, when I had finished, she slipped me a fat envelope. ‘The fee, as agreed with your people,’ she said. ‘Which I thought was very reasonable. You could charge far more than that. You should charge far more than that. And I’ve slipped in a little something extra for tuning the piano. Thank you.’ And she smiled and winked and kissed me once more.

As I drove out of her driveway, another car was coming in. It was being driven by Kendrick Tapperly, a sort of aging Rudolph Valentino look-alike who, according to local gossip, made his living as some sort of ladies’ man. What on earth could he be doing at ‘The Beeches’, I wondered. And then a really strange thought occurred to me. Surely not. Oh, well. And then it was my turn to smile.

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