Pivotal Points

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Author’s preamble:

Pivotal Points © is a fictional story containing graphic descriptions of an incestuous relationship between a mother and her son. Sexually active characters are at least eighteen years of age.

If material of this nature is illegal where you are viewing it, please surf away now.

If this kind of story is in any way offensive to you, may I respectfully suggest you hit the back button on your browser and select a different category. I have no wish to offend my readers.

To those who remain to read, please don’t expect instant gratification, I’ve tried to write an erotic story, not a fuck-fest. Having said that, I’ll leave you to your reading.


My son went through a pretty bad patch in his early teens — the usual thing, on the fringes of a territory gang, hanging around with a couple of brothers from one of the local problem families, and getting into mischief. That was fine, boys have to rebel but when the community police brought him back home two or three times I got worried about the way he was heading. Especially as they told me he’d been caught smoking marijuana and I had caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath a couple of times. His father hadn’t been around since he was a toddler so there was only me to take matters in hand.

At the very least, I thought, I needed to get him off the streets and away from the bad company, somehow. Give him a new interest but what? After some thought I decided to take him along to my amateur dramatic society. He whinged all the way there and sulked at the back of the hall the first couple of times. Until, that is, our only available young man broke his leg showing off to his girlfriend. As you can imagine, we don’t get many members his age and we were in the early stages of rehearsing a new production so my Rob was asked to fill in.

That changed his attitude, he was soon hooked. His wasn’t a big speaking part but he had lots of entrances as a page boy in a costume comedy. His page boy wasn’t supposed to be a comic part but when he accidentally tripped on his feet on one entrance and made a miraculous recovery, preserving his silver tray’s contents, which he calmly continued to serve to his mistress, Maggie, our director, saw the potential immediately.

Clapping her hands loudly to stop the action, she called, “Robbie, darling,” he was embarrassed when she called him by that name but she continued, oblivious to his discomfort, “Can you do that again? You know, the trip and so on …” Rob agreed to try so Maggie instructed, “Places everyone, we’ll take it from, ‘Upon my honour …'”

Rob went ‘off stage’ and perfectly on cue he rescued himself from another spectacular trip. Thereafter Maggie had him tripping and falling all over the place with almost every entrance and he’d always come up bouncing and continued with whatever he was doing as if nothing had happened.

With just that, Maggie changed the whole tenor of the play. And the cast, too, as everybody got involved more enthusiastically. Rob just loved all the attention he got and became a dedicated member of the Pinchley Amateur Dramatic Society. He didn’t hang around with the other guys anymore and that sullen scowl which he habitually wore was often replaced with a happy grin, especially on rehearsal nights.

He threw himself into his rôle as an inept and clumsy page boy — literally threw himself into it with his tumbles. After almost every session I found myself bathing his little cuts, scrapes and bruises but he never complained and just took the same bumps next time.

Eventually the play came together and we were making our final preparations. Then at the costume fitting the poop hit the fan. Rob hadn’t realised what page boys wore. The ornate wig, heavily buckled shoes, braided gold tunic and gold silk tights freaked him out. There was no way he was going to wear that outfit, he shouted, and stalked out. I told Maggie to leave it to me and when we had finished I took his costume home with me.

He was on his bed watching something on TV when I got back. I switched the set off and stood in front of it, hands on hips and legs slightly apart. “Get out the way,” he said sullenly, making a grab for the remote in my hand.

“Shut up and sit down!” I pushed him back onto the bed. “You’ve been rehearsing that page boy character for over two months now and you’re good. Very good. So tell me, Mr Bloody Page Boy, how did you expect to dress? Levis and a Beckham shirt?” He just sat there sulking. “Well?” I demanded, “What did you expect?”

He shrugged and for long seconds said nothing then the whinge came back to his voice, “I can’t wear that costume. They’d laugh me off the estate.”

“Who would laugh you off the estate?” I was getting more than a little annoyed. “Those shit-for-brains Doug and Phil? They’re going one way in life — the local jail — and that’s just where you’ll end up if you don’t stop worrying about what they think or don’t think. How the hell will they see you anyway? Can you see those so-called ataşehir escort mates of yours turning up for the Lower Pinchley Amateur Dramatic Society’s production of ‘Maid of Dishonour’?

“Look,” I said with an exasperated sigh, “Out there with them you’ve got no life. Look at them — their mother’s messed up her body and head on drugs, she’ll screw with anyone who will buy her next fix,” including her sons, I thought disdainfully. “She wears a tag and is barred from half the stores in Pinchley for shoplifting. Phil has an ASBO out on him and Doug’s heading that way. Are their brothers in jail or out on parole at present?”

I got on my knees in front of him and took hold of his hands. “Rob, is that what you want from life? Living on the social and never making ends meet? Sharing a doss house with half a dozen crack heads? Frazzle your brains with the stuff they use? Drink until you slip on your own vomit and smash your non-existent brains out?”

I paused to calm myself down. “At PADS I’ve seen a change in you, son. You’ve taken to it like a duck to water, you’re happy there. I like the new Rob, he’s kinda nice to have around.” I smiled and received just a slight twitch at the corners of his mouth in return. “I don’t know if you are good enough to be a professional actor although you might at least think of the stage as a career. But an actor wears the costumes the character calls for!”

Again I paused to catch my thoughts. “Look, son, as we get older we can sometimes look back on our lives and recognise some turning points. Like the day I met your Dad, for instance. If I had decided to stay at home and wash my hair one night, as I had planned, I would never have met him and you would never have been born.

“We don’t usually recognise the moments when they come so it’s often only in retrospect we can see those pivotal points in our lives. You’re at just such a point now. You can hang around out there on the estate, bunk off school and throw your life away on drink and drugs and crime, finish up having your arse reamed out in prison or you can try on that page boy suit and decide to make something of your life.” I placed the offending garments on his bed and said, “The choice is yours, Rob. I can’t force you either way.” Squeezing his hands once again, I stood and left the room, closing the door quietly behind me.

With some despair, I heard the TV come back to life and my heart was heavy as I returned to my kitchen and made myself a pot of tea, brushing the tears from my eyes. It was about fifteen minutes later I heard a call from upstairs, “Mum, can you help me?”

I returned to Rob’s bedroom and saw him struggling with his gold uniform. “What’s the problem?” I asked with a lift to my spirits.

“It’s these buttons at the back, I just can’t get to them.” He turned and showed me the offending fastenings and it didn’t take me long to sort the problem out. The tights fit him like a glove so I helped him on with the elaborately braided tunic, pulled everything straight and stood back to look at him.

“Well, it fits perfectly! Now there’s just the wig.” I pinned it on his head then said, “Come and have a look.” I took him into my bedroom and stood him in front of the full length mirror.

For a couple of silent minutes he posed, giggling a little as he turned this way and that to get a better look, tugging at the hems to smooth out the wrinkles. Eventually he told me he thought he could wear it for the play. I sent up silent prayers of thankful relief to any god who cared to listen then said, “Now we have to see if you can still tumble about in those tight pants.” He walked back towards his bedroom door, took a deliberate trip, bounced off the door frame and with a quick roll he was back on his feet with a big grin on his face.

“Yep,” he announced, “I reckon I can handle that!” His face turned serious as he turned and gave me a hug. “And thanks, Mum,” he whispered in my ear giving me a peck on the cheek.

Opening night. The church hall echoed to the scraping of the wooden chairs as the audience started to take their places and slowly the seats filled up. Just a couple of minutes after 7:30 the hall lights were dimmed down and the bright stage lights illuminated the countess perched on an ornate sofa. The hum from the audience died down and the Bishop entered, stage left …

Two hours later the church hall resounded to generous applause and cheers as the whole cast lined up to take a bow. Maggie came on and took her share of the tributes and it was she who singled out Rob and pulled him forward to the increased whistles, clapping and stamping feet from the audience. Ever willing to play up to this attention, he took a deep bow and fell flat on his face, sending the audience into further rapturous cheers.

* * *

That was five years ago. Rob had dropped his old friends in time — Doug and Phil were now detained ‘At Her Majesty’s Pleasure’ for the brutal murder of a kid who owed them drugs money but Rob had settled down at school and kadıköy escort bayan worked hard for his A levels. His social life changed and he found that girls were interesting: he even dated Julienne at PADS for a while but nothing much came of it and they were still good friends. In September he would be taking up his place at RADA with a life in the theatre ahead of him and was now a leading member of the Pinchley ADS.

The indefatigable Maggie had chosen for our next production a bedroom farce; Rob’s last play before starting at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. Maggie cast me as a middle-aged socialite frustrated in her efforts to seduce a handsome student — to be played by Rob. The last act is where she traps her youth in the bedroom and she prances around in her underwear for most of the act. She finally manages to bed her student and the play ends with them kissing and sliding under the bedclothes. The whole bedroom scene is supposed to be an hilarious frolic.

My son and I had developed a habit of rehearsing our lines at home so we would often be found chasing each other round the kitchen table as we worked through the hectic scenes and would often collapse in fits of giggles.

Shortly before the dress rehearsal I went shopping for my own costume. I shopped carefully and finished up with a solid black corset which hugged my generous figure (losing me a couple of inches I could afford) and pushed my boobs up to display a deep cleavage while preserving my public ‘decency’. Fishnet tights and four-inch heels completed my costume and, checking myself in the mirror in my bedroom, I looked like a vamp.

Rob’s eyes popped out of his head when he first saw me in costume and he fluffed his lines all evening, something he never did. It was the same next rehearsal: he was just a bundle of nerves whenever I was dressed in my undies. Back home I decided to tackle him head on and discover what was the trouble. “You’re just too sexy,” was all I could get out of him.

That pulled me up short. Me, too sexy? Then it began to dawn on me that seeing his mother in her underwear and jumping in and out of bed with her was putting an enormous strain on a healthy — and randy — youth. I needed to get him comfortable seeing me like that so I spent the whole of the next weekend dressed in nothing but my costume as I worked through my chores.

By Sunday evening he seemed much more relaxed around me, even dressed as I was so I suggested we have another practice session. As we exchanged our final kiss and disappeared under my bedclothes he groaned, “Oh, Mum,” and he placed his hand on my breast and groped. I was shocked rigid for a couple of seconds, conscious of his bulge pressing into my thigh.

I jumped out of bed, opened the door and pointed. “Out!” I said. “Now!” I shouted, “Get out!” He hung his head and started picking up the clothes that had been scattered in our chase around the bed but I screamed at him to leave them and just get out. Still not looking at me he slunk out the room. I slammed the door behind him then lay on my bed seething with anger. But my body still remembered where he had touched my breast and thigh.

When I had calmed down I got to thinking about the situation. He was a very healthy eighteen-year old boy/man with testosterone going crazy in his blood and he was being asked to cavort in and out of bed with what he had already described as a ‘sexy’ woman in her underwear. And all this weekend I’d been walking around in that underwear. To get him relaxed with the sight, had been my intention and then, with full 20/20 vision in hindsight, I realised he thought it had been a come-on. Probably that teasing romp in the bedroom rehearsal had been the last straw. I couldn’t be angry with him for that, could I?

At the breakfast table next morning my son was clearly as embarrassed as I felt then finally he said in a quiet voice, “Sorry, Mum.”

“No, Rob. It is I who should apologise to you. I’ve been running around in that corset all weekend so there would be nothing unusual when you saw me like that in the play, at least that’s the way I saw it. To me it’s just another costume in just another play. I guess maybe you saw it different. I’m sorry, son, I never meant to tease you, it’ll never happen again. Can we just put last night behind us, please?”

“If you like, Mum. But you’re still sexy.”

“Thanks, and this old girl really means thanks, I don’t get too many compliments these days. But I am your mother and you are my son. And we have a play to put on and it’s far too late for either of us to pull out. We have a week of solid rehearsals — and you know Maggie’s not happy with that final scene — then another week of performance. We’ve got to get through that as actors. You won’t get to bed every woman you bed on the stage. Not with professionals, and that’s what we’ve got to be.

“Any touch, kiss or caress in the play is between Cynthia Smythe and Tony Ladbrooke. Can we keep it that way?”

“I guess we’ll have to, Cynthia.” He escort maltepe grinned at the use of my character’s name. “But you’re much nicer than Cynthia — god, isn’t she the pretentious, selfish cow?”

“Can’t argue with that.” I ruffled his hair, knowing he would protest playfully.

“Gerroff,” he pushed my hand away. “Leave me alone. Go on, you’re late for work.”

We were good friends again as we walked to the church hall that evening. Maggie told us to get ready for the final scene but to wrap up as she wanted to work for a while on the third scene and we weren’t in that. Then it was our turn and we just couldn’t satisfy her right from the off. Maggie had us trying different body positions, different movements but still she wasn’t happy.

“Stop, stop, stop,” she called wearily. “Cynthia, you been chasing Tony for days, plotting and scheming to get him into your bedroom. Now your latest trophy is on your hook and you’re a predator toying with its prey and you’ve got the hots for him, not like a mother hen clucking over her chick.

“Tony, you’re in the bedroom of a sexy, sophisticated woman. She’s not a shop mannequin, she’s real hot flesh and she’s giving you the come-on and you’re a horny as hell virgin. But you’re also timid and a bit overwhelmed. See how it goes.

“OK, Cynthia, put your blouse back on and we’ll take it from there. Let’s go …” she clapped her hands imperiously.

I replaced my blouse for the umpteenth time, nodded to my son and tried to get into the mind of my character. I stood tall, with my legs slightly apart aggressively. Thrusting my hips forward I said my lines, “Thank you so much Tony. You’ve been very sweet.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs Smythe. Anytime.” But the shy young man in front of me seemed to wilt in my gaze as I advanced towards him slowly, deliberately opening the four buttons on my blouse.

“How can I thank you?” I allowed the blouse to float off my shoulders and down my arms, catching it in one hand just before it fell away. I smiled at him thinly. “I’ll just have to find some way.” I stepped up close to my trophy and looped the blouse round his neck, catching the loose end.

“I er think er I should go now Mrs Smythe,” he stuttered as I pulled his reluctant body forward a couple of steps.

“Please, call me Cynthia. I mean we’re friends now, Tony. You can hold me, darling.” I made it sound almost like an order. I pulled him closer then held him almost at arms length as I pushed my bosom out towards him.

“Are we friends Mrs er Cynthia?” He put one hand on my upper arm and the other on my hip. “Truly friends?” Then I felt his hand jerkily start moving upwards. Oh no, he wouldn’t dare, I thought. He’ll stop before he …

But Cynthia just said, “I admit I haven’t always been nice to you, but now we’re friends. Let me make it up.” And with that his hand jerked right up to cup the bottom of my breast. His mother ignored it but Cynthia’s eyes lit up in a triumphant smile.

“Yes, keep it like that,” Maggie called then came over to talk to us privately. “That was great,” she said to us both, then to Rob she continued, “I like the initial timidity and that final nervous reach but a virgin boy would make a grab for the breast. She took hold of his hand, placed it firmly on my breast and pressed his fingers in. Perhaps she then remembered who we were because she hastily pulled his hand away and apologised, “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.” She looked away embarrassed.

Rob and I looked at each other. “Tony Ladbrooke is OK with that. How about you?” he said.

“No problem for Cynthia Smythe. Maggie, we talked this over this morning and agreed that we are just actors playing a part. Right, Rob?”

“S’right, Mum.”

“If you’re both happy, can we do it that way. Try again, just that final clinch.” Maggie stepped back and motioned us to continue.

“Please, call me Cynthia. I mean we’re friends now, Tony. You can hold me, darling.” I made it sound almost like an order. I pulled him closer then held him almost at arms length as I pushed my bosom out towards him.

“Are we friends Mrs er Cynthia?” He put one hand on my upper arm and the other on my hip. “Truly friends?” Then I felt his hand jerkily start moving upwards.

“I admit I haven’t always been nice to you but yes, now we’re friends. Let me make it up.” As Cynthia was saying that, his hand moved right onto her bust and curled motionless over it.

“Grab at it. It’s the first tit you’ve held since you were a baby,” ordered Maggie although she was not usually so crude.

His grip tightened on my ‘tit’ until Maggie called, “Good. Again …” so we took our positions. This time on cue Tony grabbed Cynthia’s breast and started kneading it. “Keep it like that,” said Maggie as she retreated to her favourite chair and told us to put on our robes against the chill and join her. ‘Keep it like that’ was Maggie’s sign that she was happy.

“Rob, I want Tony to keep that fire built up inside. You help out here, Cynthia. Back right off him while you’re telling him your side of the horse brasses saga, leave him panting. Then tease him in your lines about the cow pat. See what I mean: In, out, in, out. Play with your toy. He’s yours to take any time you like. Then he’ll be ready for the chase.”

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