by Jillian Marie

Thanks to Karen J, Angharad, and Angel for kindly helping me prepare this story for public consumption.

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The thought that my mother was aware of the presence of lingerie in my drawer that didn’t belong to Cindy was a bit disconcerting, to say the least. Yeah, she could have thought they belonged to another girl, but then why would Cindy have left them around? While I hoped she’d just forget about it, I seriously doubted such a thing would come to pass.

It’s safe to say that all this kept me even more off balance than normal the subsequent week plus. I did at least manage to get the opus 10 concert etudes worked up to the point where they were ready for my next recital appearance, but beyond that I was pretty much a basket case.

The morning of my recital appearance I was bad enough that I didn’t even bother going to classes. Instead, I lay in bed until nearly 10 before I finally admitted to myself that I was going to have to get ready to perform.

Maybe there was some subconscious feminine spirit urging me to do as I did. I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I do know however that for no particular reason that my conscious mind can recall, I shaved extra close…not that there was usually enough there to be all that concerned about…and on a truly strange whim took my razor with me into the shower, where I proceeded to shave off my leg and chest hair. The entire time I was doing it I kept asking myself “What am I thinking?” and the like. I never did figure out what possessed me to do it, but the deed was done.

As I began dressing I pulled my panties up my freshly shaved legs and felt my knees turn to jelly from the sensation of silky Lycra against hairless skin. It was quickly apparent this would not be a one-time thing.

The bra also presented some interesting variations on the now somewhat familiar sensations, as the skin sans chest hair was more sensitive and the scratchy lace against my clean-shaven chest felt frankly marvelous. It was quickly becoming clear that body hair removal was going to be a standard part of my ablutions from then on. I just hoped Cindy didn’t find it too weird.

Anything worth doing is worth giving your best effort, so before I pulled on my suit I decided to go one step further and dug out some panty hose that Cindy had left in one of the dresser drawers, which I put on under the suit pants. Was that enough to distract me and keep me from thinking too much on stage? Let’s just say I’d be lucky if I remembered where the recital was being held, let alone how to play anything.

Once I was done with that part I took a seat on the sofa and thought about what I’d just done. Up to that point everything had just been wearing clothes…no big deal. Now I’d done something far more feminine…in my mind at least…than wearing lingerie could ever be, and there would no doubt be some form of consequences to the action I’d taken. What those would be I had absolutely no idea.

Just before Cindy got back from her morning classes, I pulled on my dress shirt and pants, shoes and socks, and jacket and tie. When she came in I was sitting at the kitchen table looking over the sheet music for today’s performance as if I was going to discover something new that I could implement in under an hour’s time.

She walked up to me and leaned down as I looked up at her and we kissed. “Are you all ready?” she asked.

“I suppose so,” I responded somewhat distractedly.

“Something wrong?”

More focused on what was actually going on, I said, “No, just the usual pre-performance jitters. Come on, we’d best get going.”

We made the trek to the performing arts center in more or less silence and upon arriving both headed directly for backstage. Once there I took a look at the amended performance order and to my utter surprise I was up first. That had never happened before and I wasn’t entirely sure how to go about playing without standing around backstage for 30 plus minutes while my nerve endings stewed in adrenalin. I finally told myself that it was a good thing because the less time I have to get nervous the better the performance should be.

Dr. Caroll came up to me before she went out front to wish me luck, then the stage manager signaled that it was time to go on. Cindy gave me a hug and whispered, “Go get ‘em” in my ear, and then it was time to walk onto the stage.

While I was still nervous, it was nothing compared to my previous appearances, as I almost felt relaxed this time by comparison. I acknowledged the audience, who were applauding more enthusiastically than I had expected, then sat down at the piano.

Unlike my previous recital performances, I felt more or less all there and had no trouble remembering anything. I raised my hands to the keyboard and suddenly became acutely aware of my bra straps across my shoulders, as well as the lace of the cups rubbing against my chest. I placed my foot on the sustain pedal and felt the most exquisite charge as the nylon of the panty hose rubbed against the inside of my pant leg.

That’s really all it took. The part of my brain that would normally focus incessantly on the mechanics of playing was jelly and I was free to pour all my emotions into my playing without feeling the need to hold anything back. While I wasn’t completely certain what things were sounding like to the audience, to my ear I was giving an outstanding performance.

That’s not to say this was going to be just like my previous recital appearances. Where previously I had played in a sort of trance, totally unaware of my own performance, this time I was aware of every little nuance and yet wasn’t getting caught up in the mechanics.

Basically what this all meant was that I seemed to have finally achieved some sort of balance where I could remain cognizant of my performance without analyzing the life out of it.

I had barely been playing a minute when I began to grasp the importance of this step. For the first time ever I was playing with the kind of grace and power that Dr. Caroll had been trying to bring out of me in front of an audience without getting so freaked out by nerves that I lost contact with the real world.

There were a few rough spots, like during the E Major number 3 when I plain as day hit a couple of very exposed wrong notes early on, then had trouble playing the climax as smoothly as I would have liked. Or the Eb Major number 11, which I simply never felt any sort of comfort level with and so it sounded to my ear way too disjointed. There were other little problems of course, but then nobody’s perfect.

By the end of the twelfth etude I was emotionally exhausted. I frankly wasn’t sure I could duplicate this performance, because while I know I had tapped into some fairly strong feelings and poured them into the music, I couldn’t necessarily tell you what those feelings were or what they meant to the performance. These were things that I would have to keep working on to understand.

I could however tell from the audience reaction that my impressions of the performance as a whole were spot on as the enthusiasm overwhelmed me. I took several bows before leaving the stage and they were still applauding when I reached Cindy and Dr. Caroll.

“Pity there’s not room on the program for an encore,” quipped my teacher as she shook my hand before turning to the next performer to offer some last minute encouragement and instructions.

“You played beautifully,” Cindy gushed as she kissed me on my cheek.

“Well gee, thanks,” I said as nonchalantly as I could manage given the buzz I was still riding from the audience reaction. “Glad you liked it.”

“So do we need to stick around for the rest of the recital? Or could we take off for a while?” she asked as she started trying to lead me toward the stage door.

As I followed her, offering little or no resistance I said, “I can’t think of any reason why we would need to stay. What did you have in mind?” I asked, having several ideas of my own if she happened to be without.

“I thought we’d go back to your apartment so you can get out of that monkey suit,” she said as she pulled me close and gave me a knee-buckling kiss. As she slowly broke the kiss she said, “And who knows what might come to us.”

A few minutes later we were making our way through the front door to my apartment, Cindy already undoing my tie and reaching to start unbuttoning my shirt. When she got down to the bra, she gently rubbed the lace into my nipples, which nearly left me unable to initiate any kind of conscious thought.

Within seconds my suit jacket and dress shirt had joined my tie on the living room floor and she was working on my belt. After quickly getting it undone as well, she opened my dress pants and was surprised by what she found.

“What’s this?” she asked, obviously taken aback.

“I just had a thought this morning as I was getting ready,” I replied sheepishly.

“You know, I thought I’d noticed that your chest was more bare than usual, but tried to dismiss it as my imagination. Now though,” she allowed the thought to drift away rather than trying to complete it.

Instead of saying anything more, she reached out and began gently rubbing my nipple through the lace of my bra cup. While she did that, she ever so gently brushed her lips across mine, generating a kind of electric charge that very nearly sent me over the edge. To call the sensations heavenly would be to do them a disservice.

When she broke the contact it took me a few moments to regain full mental functionality, during which time she stared into my eyes. Once she could tell I had returned to more or less normal she said, “You surprised me.”

“How so?”

“This is the first time you’ve voluntarily taken a step beyond just wearing women’s clothes. How did it feel when you were doing it?”

“Well, when I was shaving it didn’t really feel any different than when I shave my face…other than of course for the fact that it took forever,” I said with a bit of a chuckle. “But afterward?” I left the thought unfinished.

“Let me guess. You felt the nylon rub against your legs, the way it caresses the bare, clean-shaven skin…” she said, completing my thought.

“Well yeah, but it was more than that.”

“Meaning?”

I looked into her eyes for a moment; unable to form the thought I was reaching for until she finally spoke again. “Did you notice anything different emotionally?”

“You mean like the fact that I actually remember how I played today? Unlike every other time since I started all this?”

“Really? That’s interesting,” she said as she seemed to drift away for a moment.

“Indeed,” I whispered as I too drifted off into private thought.

I did finally return from my little mental trip just in time to go to my lesson with Dr. Caroll. As usual we began by listening to the recording of today’s performance. She commented briefly about the problem areas, which I already recognized as we listened, but it was little more than noting the problems for future work.

When the recording was over she said, “All in all, well done!” I hoped I didn’t develop a big ego from all the praise as she continued, “Your fellow performers have requested that you be scheduled last on all recitals from now on.”

It took me a moment to understand the implications of this statement, but it did finally click. “It wasn’t that good,” I said, trying to discount what I’d just been told.

“This is an incredible compliment, Kyle. They all respect you to the point that they’re a little jealous.”

“I suppose, but it is all a bit daunting, you know?”

“Just don’t let it go to your head. The last thing you can afford to do now is let up. We have a semester ending recital to prepare for.”

Dr. Caroll turned toward her desk and pulled out two books, which she set on the music stand. “I’m going to go ahead and assign your next two pieces because one of them is technically rather simple when compared to what you’ve worked on thus far, but the other should prove to be a major challenge.”

She first opened a book of Mozart sonatas. “The Mozart k.330 isn’t all that difficult technically speaking, but it’s very easy for it to sound mechanical if it’s not done well. You’ll be playing the complete sonata in two weeks time.”

She then opened the other book. “The Liszt, on the other hand, is very technical. That’s why I’m giving you both at the same time.”

I stared at them both for a moment, feeling a little overwhelmed. Finally I asked, “Are you sure about this?”

“Oh yes, absolutely. It’s not often that someone as young as you shows the ability to handle this kind of workload, but I’m certain you’re up to the challenge. Now what say we jump on into the Mozart?”

It wasn’t really a question, I knew. Still I couldn’t help but look at her for a moment before I started playing.

She was right, of course. The Mozart sonata was a beautiful piece of music, but nowhere near as difficult as the other pieces I’d been working on. Not to mention the fact that I had played it before…not that I was going to tell her that part.

When I finished playing through the entire piece, Dr. Caroll remarked, “You’ve obviously played this one before!” She got this sly smile on her face and said, “This means you’ll have even more time to work on the Liszt. However, it appears our time for today is about up. Polish the Mozart and get to work on the Liszt. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

Over the next couple of days I got into a sort of routine. One day I’d start my practice with the Chopin Mazurkas. The next day I’d start with the Rachmaninov, and the day after that it was the Chopin etudes. Each day I’d follow with once through Mozart and close out each session with Liszt.

Other than sleeping together, I’m afraid I didn’t pay all that much attention to Cindy, though she didn’t complain. It seemed she too was extra busy with school stuff as she was working on a project for one of her psychology classes. We’d eat dinner together each night before going to sleep and other than that we were both rather engrossed in our own things.

By the time the performance of the Mozart drew near Dr. Caroll decided to let me in on what would be my performance schedule for the remainder of the semester. Following the Liszt, my bi-weekly midday recitals would be dropped in favor of a couple of “more important” performances. My solo recital would take place two weeks after I played the Liszt, and after that I would have two weeks to prepare Mozart’s twelfth piano concerto in A Major, kv.414 for a performance with the Conservatory Orchestra. This was a nearly unheard of honor, allowing a freshman to appear as a soloist with the orchestra. I just hoped I didn’t screw it up.

My Mozart was by no means my best work, but in spite of that the performance was extremely well received by both my peers and Dr. Caroll. I was becoming much more comfortable with performing, and hoped that trend would continue for the foreseeable future.

After what I had to describe as a less than good performance on the Mozart sonata, I felt the need to do something extra with the Liszt to redeem myself. Two weeks of working extra hard in preparation later, my rendition of the Franz Liszt piano sonata was outstanding, even if I do say so myself. It had beauty, grace, power, finesse, precision, and the most important ingredient…soul. I suspect the only person more pleased with my performance than me was Dr. Caroll, which was apparent by the amount of gushing.

That evening I found myself a bit out of sorts wracking my brain for ideas of how to maintain the level I’d set for myself. Although I was coming up empty handed in the idea department, Cindy seemed to come up with an idea that could really help give me a nudge and I don’t know if she meant to or not.

We were lounging on the couch relaxing after dinner and as she held my hand she was devoting an inordinate amount of attention to my fingernails. “You know, you really should take better care of these,” she said breaking the silence that had built up around us as we relaxed.

“What? My fingernails?” I asked feeling a little surprised at the abruptness of her comment. “You don’t mean like polished, do you?”

“Not unless you wanted to, no. I was just looking at them and although they are a fair amount longer than most guys, you haven’t been taking care of them.”

“I leave them long because I have a tendency to curl my fingers too much when I play and the longer nails force me not to do that.”

“Then you should take better care of them. At least file the edges so they aren’t so raggedy.”

“You’re probably right. Do you have a file?”

“Sure,” she reached into her purse and pulled out an emery board. “Here, we’ll use this.” She picked up my right hand and began filing away. “I’ll show you how this time and then you’re on your own, big boy.”

She rounded off the corners and smoothed out the rough edges, leaving behind a much nicer looking set of fingernails than I had previously. Rather feminine, but nice. When she was done she asked, “There, isn’t that better?”

I looked at them for a moment and I had to admit that they did look much better. I felt a momentary wave of panic rise up as I realized just how feminine they really were. Then I returned to Earth, remembering that I’ve been wearing panties all semester, and have been performing in a bra and pantyhose over shaven legs. From that perspective, neatly shaped fingernails didn’t seem like all that big of a deal at all.

After that night the nail file became a regular part of my grooming, just like shaving my body hair had before. It wasn’t until the night before my recital that Cindy broached the subject of applying some “nail hardener” to make them stronger. I wasn’t sure, but had to admit that so far she hadn’t led me astray, so finally I submitted to her idea and found myself sitting there with my fingers splayed waiting for the clear stuff to dry. It could have just been my imagination, but it seemed that the hardener made my nails jump out because they glistened.

My performance was to be in the evening and I spent much of the day so preoccupied by what I perceived as my brightly glistening fingernails that I absorbed basically nothing from any of my classes. By eleven I had given up on attending classes and had returned to my apartment to wait until it was time to get ready for my recital.

At noon Cindy joined me in waiting. She tried her best to distract me from obsessing about the performance to come, but in the end I’m afraid all her efforts were in vain. We ate a bite of lunch, watched some television, listened to some music…and yes, engaged in a little bit of more intimate activity as well. Despite all that I was still wound so tight I was afraid springs might start popping out of me. I was fairly certain there was no way I would survive the night. Only time would tell.

Frederic Chopin Concert Etudes, Opus 10
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/chopin-10-1-stahlb...
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/chopin-10-2-stahlb...
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/chopin-10-3-grant.mp3
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/chopin-10-4-sinadi...
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/chopin-10-5-kingma...
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/chopin-10-6-stahlb...
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/chopin-10-9-kingma...
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/chopin-10-11-levin...
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/chopin-10-12-kingm...

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Piano Sonata, k.330
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/mozart-330-1-kopp.mp3
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/mozart-330-2-3-kop...

Franz Liszt, Piano Sonata in B minor, s.178
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/liszt-sonata-Bmino...

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Piano Concerto No.12 in A Major, kv.414
http://server3.pianosociety.com/protected/mozart-kv414-1-bko...

Notes:

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To Be Continued...