by Betty Paper
Piano Lessons
Betty Paper
Piano Lessons is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living, or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Betty Paper
* * *
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
eBook ISBN 9781940811840
Cover by Go On Write
Contents
Lesson One
Lesson Two
Lesson Three
Lesson Four
Lesson Five
Lesson Six
Lesson Seven
Lesson Eight
Lesson Nine
Lesson Ten
Lesson Eleven
Excerpt from Captive
Also by Betty Paper
Betty Writing as Beth Yarnall
About the Author
Lesson One
I met Johnny Miller at a USO square dance in January 1943 at the University of Colorado, where he was visiting family before heading off to war. He spent all evening dancing in my square. At the end of the night he kissed me. Three weeks later, we ran off to California together and got married.
My father, Joseph Q. Feldon, of Feldon’s department stores, swore he’d never speak to me again. He stayed true to his word, permanently cutting me off financially. My brother and sister would inherit the department store empire. I was out of the will.
I didn’t care. I was in love.
Six months after we got married, Johnny shipped out. I was left alone in California. I started teaching piano to a few of the neighborhood children for some extra money and to pass the time until the war was over and my Johnny came home.
Those were lonely months. The loneliest months of my life. I was a nineteen-year-old war wife, doing my part for our boys abroad. Once a week I treated myself to a movie. The newsreels were full of images of our men, fighting for freedom. I looked and looked, hoping to get a glimpse of my Johnny. I never saw him.
Once a week I’d get a letter from him. He always addressed them the same: To my Ruby Rose, and they were full of how much he missed and loved me. I wrote him three letters a week faithfully, sometimes sending along a snapshot of me. I didn’t want him to forget what I looked like. If I closed my eyes I could still hear his voice, but as the weeks turned to months, I stopped hearing his voice as clearly and couldn’t remember the way his arms felt around me.
And then the telegram came.
Dear Mrs. Miller,
It is our sad obligation to report that Private Jonathon Petre Miller was killed in action.
I was a widow at nineteen.
My first thought was to call my parents. I wanted to go home. But Daddy had been adamant that I was on my own. Without the money Johnny sent me, times got tough. I barely scrapped by on the money I made giving piano lessons. I managed to get a part-time job—ironically, at Feldon’s department store. It was all I could find. If it weren’t for the tiny house in Long Beach that Johnny had inherited from his grandmother, I would’ve been out on the street.
It was hard keeping up the old house. Things broke all the time. The kitchen faucet busted off in my hand, spraying water everywhere. Frantic, I called the first plumber in the phone book. By the time he showed up, the kitchen was flooded and I was in tears, sweeping water out the back door to keep it from spreading to the rest of the house.
He was a big swarthy man, the plumber, with deep-set eyes and arms full of tattoos. He introduced himself as Aaron of Aaron’s Plumbing. He frightened me a little, reminding me of the toughs who used to make comments as my friends and I walked by back in Colorado.
Thankfully, Aaron got the water shut off right away, stopping the flood. I leaned on the broom and watched him work, dread pooling in my belly. I didn’t have much money left after my trip to the grocery store this morning.
He didn’t talk much. Lots of grunts and short sentences. But he was efficient, finishing the job in just under an hour. When he was done, he rubbed his dark-whiskered jaw. “That’ll be eight eighty-five, including parts.”
I stared at him in shock. I didn’t have the money. “Would you take payments?”
“Payment in full only.”
“Trade then?”
His dark gaze slid over me. “For what?”
“I teach piano. Perhaps your children—”
“Don’t got any.”
“Your wife then.”
“Don’t got one of them either.” He wiped his hands on a rag, regarding me with interest. “What else you got to trade?”
Nothing. I had nothing. Except…
I fingered the locket around my neck that Johnny had given me with his photo in it before shipping out. It was all I had. I undid the clasp and held it out to Aaron. “Would you take this?”
He stepped closer, his gate disjointed. I’d noticed he moved funny while he worked, using the counter to push himself up off the floor. He was close enough that I could smell the spice of his cologne and the tang of his sweat. It had been months since I’d been this close to a man.
I suddenly missed my Johnny something terrible, and the feel of his body close to mine. The loneliness crept over me like a fog and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.
“Pretty bauble,” he said.
“My husband gave it to me.”
“Where’s your husband?”
“Killed in action.”
“Sorry.” He curled his fingers around mine, closing my hand with the locket inside. “You keep it.”
His eyes were full of sorrow. He was being kind to me when he didn’t have to. I felt bad for thinking the things I’d thought about him. His large hand was warm and strong and sure over mine. My Johnny’s hands had been like that—possessive, reassuring. A fierce longing swept over me, making me sway toward him. It had been too long since I’d been touched. Not even so much as a hug since my Johnny had left me. What it would be like to have this man’s hands on me, on my body. Would he be big all over?
“Is there something…something else I have that you might want?” My voice was breathy, my heart beating like a conga drum. I edged a little closer, until our hands were the only thing between our bodies. “Is there some…other way I could pay you?”
I couldn’t believe what I was proposing. It took him a moment to get my meaning. When he did his eyes widened. My nipples went rigid against the wet front of my dress, despite the warm day. I’d only ever been with my Johnny, and it had been good. He’d made me feel sensual and desirable. I think I missed that most of all, that look he’d give me. The same look Aaron was giving me now.
“Some other way?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“I’m lonely,” I whispered desperately. “I don’t have any money to pay you. I don’t have anything to trade. I don’t have anything of value you might want. All I have is me.”
“What if all I want is you?”
“What would it take to pay off the debt?”
“How much do you charge for those piano lessons?”
“Thirty cents an hour.”
He nodded sadly. “I charge fifty cents an hour.”
“I’d pay my hourly rate against the bill.” I swallowed hard. “However you want.”
“What if I just want you to touch me?”
I put a hand on his chest. His skin was hot under the rough cotton of his shirt, his muscles hard. “Like this?”
He grunted.
“Sh
irt on or off.”
“Off.”
I worked the buttons of his shirt until it parted. He sucked in a breath as I smoothed it back and off his shoulders. The shirt hit the ground and all I could see was the wide expanse of his chest. More tattoos. My Johnny hadn’t had any tattoos. He didn’t believe in them.
The thought of my husband brought a fresh pang of sorrow and loneliness, but surprisingly no guilt.
Aaron took me by the wrists and put my hands on his bare chest. He groaned and closed his eyes as I touched him. The tattoos camouflaged scars, I realized. Lots of scars. His breath grew rough, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The front of his trousers bulged. He did nothing but sway while he stood there and let me touch him.
“Would you like… That is, would you be more comfortable lying down?”
He opened his slumberous eyes and looked down at me. “Where?”
I took his hand and led him to my bedroom. The quilt I’d made from scraps of my Johnny’s old shirts covered the bed. I peeled it back and motioned for Aaron to lie down. He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots, then he stood and hooked his thumbs into the waist of his pants with a question in his eyes.
I nodded for him to go ahead. I’d seen a man before. Aaron’s maleness wouldn’t bother me. I actually grew flush at the thought.
“I was in an accident,” he told me in way of warning. “I lost a leg. I have scars.”
I ran a finger over a nasty one on his chest just over his heart. “Like this one?”
He nodded gruffly. “You aren’t put off?”
“Me? No. My granny used to say that scars are proof we fought hard and won.” To prove it, I brushed his hands aside and unfastened his trousers. His member was hard and large. I froze in fascination to stare at it pressing against his underpants.
“You don’t got to do nothing with that. Our deal was for touching.” He made to refasten his trousers, but I held on firmly.
“What if I want…?” I licked my lower lip. “That is, if you want, I could touch you there too.”
“I haven’t been touched there like that since the accident.”
“How long?”
“Eight years. No woman wants half a man.”
“We have a bargain, don’t we?”
“For touching.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “For touching.”
I pulled his trousers and underpants down his hips. His giant cock sprang free. I had to lean to the side to keep it out of my face as I pushed his pants the rest of the way down.
His body looked like a war zone. His right leg cruelly cut off above the knee. Or at least where the knee should’ve been. A crude simulation of a leg was attached to his stump with straps. The skin around it was red and tender looking. Scars of different shapes and thicknesses covered nearly the entire font of his body.
I gave him a little push and he bounced onto the bed.
Bending down, I helped him the rest of the way out of his pants. His whole body shook as though a tornado ripped through it. Don’t know if he caught a chill or if it was because I couldn’t stop looking and touching. His body fascinated me. There was strength and vulnerability and pain. So much pain.
I reached for the buttons on my dress. I didn’t know where my boldness came from. Looking at Aaron’s torn-up body made me think of my Johnny and his last moments. He’d suffered badly from his wounds before he’d died, according to the funeral director who’d prepared him for burial. Oh, how many times I wished I could’ve been there to soothe him and care for him. I wanted to do for Aaron what I couldn’t do for Johnny—take away his pain and replace it with pleasure.
Aaron leaned up on his elbows. “What are you doing?”
“Touching you.”
He made a low noise in the back of his throat, causing the place between my legs to go slick. I dropped my dress and went to work on my underthings. His eyes never left me. They burned like black coals. When I was nude, I lay down on the bed next to him and pressed my body against his. Oh, that was nice. His body was hairier than Johnny’s, but that only made it more masculine.
He didn’t touch me at first, lying stiffly next to me. Slowly he relaxed. First one arm snaked around me then the other.
He was a furnace. I imagined him warming my bed at night instead of the hot water bottle I normally used. I’d forgotten how good it was to have a man in my bed.
Sifting my fingers through the hair on his chest, I grew bolder, sliding my hand down his hard, marred stomach. He didn’t stop me like I expected him to. The hairs around his member were springy and wiry and dark, black as night. His manhood dripped stickiness that mixed with his hairs, turning them white. I ran an experimental finger through the wetness. His chest rumbled beneath my head and his member leaked more fluid as I licked my finger.
I’d tasted my Johnny many times. He’d taught me how to take him in my mouth and to use my hands on him. He’d put his mouth on me too. It had taken me a while to get used to that. Good girls didn’t do those things. The more comfortable I became, the bolder my Johnny got, until we were doing things I was sure would send me straight to hell. The only thing was—I’d liked it. A lot. My Johnny made me feel beautiful and cherished. I could be brazen and out of control with him. The wilder I became, the more my Johnny had praised me. Oh, how I missed his adoration.
And I missed having a man inside me. I missed the touch of a man and his weight on top of me. I missed being taken from behind. I missed the touching, the kissing, the licking, the sticky wetness between my legs. I missed the way my body shook with pleasure.
Aaron didn’t say anything or make any move to stop me from taking him in my mouth. The only movement he made was a subtle thrusting of his hips off the bed. He was large, much larger than my Johnny had been. It took me a little while to figure out how to handle him. He required both of my hands and even when I had him at the back of my throat, I couldn’t get to all of him.
A tentative, gentle hand moved up my back and cradled my head. His good leg shifted restless over the bunched-up covers, kicking them onto the floor. The heady musk of his sex filled my nose, making me wetter between the legs.
He flexed his fingers in my hair. “Mrs. Miller,” he murmured. “Mrs. Miller, I can’t stop.”
I sucked him as far back as I could and massaged his sack. He thrashed and groaned. He pulled my hair. My mouth suddenly filled with his seed. Torrents of it. I gulped it down greedily, as my Johnny had taught me. Aaron tasted different. Good, but different. I licked him until he grew flaccid in my hand and his breathing slowed.
He pulled me onto him and kissed the top of my head. “Thank you, Mrs. Miller.”
“Don’t call me Mrs. Miller. It’s Ruby. Call me Ruby.”
Lesson Two
I paid off Aaron in three sessions, each a week apart. At the end of the last session, while he was still hard inside me, he asked if he could take me out to dinner. I laughed and told him I’d love to, but I didn’t need a boyfriend and I wasn’t looking for a husband. I needed a job. A steady income.
He proposed something that at first struck me as insane. No. Insulting. My mouth was open to refuse in the most blistering way when it struck me. I’d already been doing what he was suggesting and I hadn’t been bothered by it.
He offered to pay me for my time.
Twice the hourly wage he charged for plumbing. That was a whole lot more than I was making at Feldon’s and buckets more than I made giving children, who didn’t practice, piano lessons. I agreed and we set up the terms. He would come to me every Tuesday at four-thirty in the afternoon. He winked and called it his piano lesson.
My Tuesday afternoons with Aaron helped my finances a good deal, but I was still coming up short. The property taxes on the house were due soon and I didn’t have the money. If I didn’t pay, I’d lose my home. I mentioned my problem to Aaron one afternoon when he caught me staring off into space.
“My husband didn’t pay them last year and I owe for this year,”
I told Aaron. “I could lose the house.”
“If I had it to give to you, I would,” he said in earnest.
I believed him. He was a good man, a ferocious lover, and a solid presence in my life that I’d come to rely on.
“Maybe you could give piano lessons to others like me.” His voice was low and cautious, his gaze downcast as he played with a strand of my hair. “Not sure I’d like sharing you though.”
I considered his notion. Our arrangement was special. I wasn’t sure how I’d even go about doing what he suggested.
“I know a fella,” he continued in the same careful manner. “The brother of a friend. Broken like me. Almost died fighting for our country. Been real down. Maybe you could do for him what you’ve done for me. He could more than afford you.”
And that was how I came to meet Jack.
He knocked on my door a week later on Wednesday morning at nine AM sharp. I didn’t know what Aaron had told him about our arrangement or what Jack expected from me, but he looked at me with defiance and anger in his eyes, daring me to make a comment.
Jack was broken all right. He was about my age, maybe a little younger, and styled his hair like Errol Flynn’s, letting a lock of it fall forward. On Errol it was rakish and dashing. On Jack it was meant to try to camouflage his eye patch. He balanced on one leg with a crutch tucked up under one arm. His good arm. The limbs on his left side were missing. He wasn’t scarred like Aaron, but it was clear he’d been very terribly wounded.
“I’m here for my piano lesson.” He rolled his eyes at the euphemism Aaron had come up with for what would seem to be my new occupation.
The cut of Jack’s jaw and the shape of his mouth reminded me a bit of my Johnny. I melted at the sight of him, which he appeared to take for pity.