tagIncest/TabooTrigger Points

Trigger Points


At 43, I was comfortable in that feeling that I finally had it all together. The wounds left by my divorce four years ago had largely healed. Financially, I was more than secure. My children attended fine private schools, I indulged my tastes in clothing and wine, and we took regular vacations. I even still had my looks. Physical exercise had always been an important part of my life—in the dark times, it probably kept me sane—and my body was not only healthy but taut.

My work in the corporate world was generally boring, which was good. God knows, my kids provided more than sufficient challenges to keep life interesting. Zoe was the girl I was at eighteen. Exactly my height at five foot 8, she had the same athletic build I once did, along with the same cheekbones, dark eyes and brunette hair. We even wore our hair the same—down to the shoulders. The difference was that over the years, I had gained a cup size and fuller hips. Zoe was still a c-cup, and her legs went to an almost boyish bottom.

Jeffrey, my son, was a year older than her, and blessed with thick curls of black hair and intense blue eyes. A full six feet two, his body had not yet filled out, and at times he looked so slender as to seem fragile. That impression quickly departed when he took off his shirt, and you saw the whipcords move under his skin.

I was proud to say that they were both smarter and more talented than me. Zoe was a straight 4.0 student and a gifted cellist. She dreamed of training at the Juilliard, and for her it was a real possibility.

Jeffrey had a measured I.Q. Of 153, and was pursuing a double major in Philosophy and Psychology and an intellectual obsession he called "mind-body intersections." He buried himself in esoteric texts, and practiced yoga and meditation with a discipline that amazed and sometimes almost frightened me. At times, his concentration seemed like the beam of a laser.

He was also unbelievably gifted at massage, one of those magical people who could somehow intuit exactly where it hurt, exactly how hard or soft to touch, exactly how to release the tension within. It was precisely that talent that got me in trouble.

I suffered from chronic neck and shoulder pain since a traffic accident two years ago. My job, though boring, was also stressful, and by the end of the day, my shoulders were often throbbing. Always reluctant to take drugs, often there was nothing I could do but to sit in a darkened room with an ice pack on my neck and hope that the pain would diminish. That's when I discovered Jeffrey's magic fingers. In retrospect, it was so innocent.

One Saturday afternoon, while Zoe was taking music lessons, Jeffrey helped me move some stuff out of the attic when he noticed me cringe in pain.

He said, "Let's see if I can help."

Jeffrey had me sit upright on a low-backed chair. He stood behind me and began gently working the tight muscles of my shoulders and back. At first, it was just soothing. Then his fingers found these subtle triggers buried deep beneath the knots. It was as if some splinters of broken glass, each no bigger than a grain of sand, were embedded in my flesh and Jeffrey had found the precise point where they were located. He pressed on these points, and though the pressure was not that great, the sensation was exquisite—something right on that strange borderline of pain and pleasure that you sometimes find in athletics. I tensed involuntarily, but Jeff kept talking to me in this soft, monotone voice, guiding each breath I took, directing my breath into the tension, until the glass splinters melted, melted like ice crystals on a warm day, and the pain melted with them and soaked deep into my shoulders like a handful of warm oil and every bit of pain, every bit of discomfort, eased into nothingness. The release was so complete that I closed my eyes and drifted while my son's soft voice droned on in the background. It was the first time in longer than I could remember that I had been entirely without pain, and I let my body and mind float on a liquid pool of relief.

After a while, our sessions became routine. On Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays, coincidentally the days when Zoe had her music lessons, Jeff would give me a massage. His knowing hands would quickly find my trigger points, as if he had a map of all of the push buttons of my nervous system. Sometimes, in response to his touch, a burning sensation would shoot down my arm, or radiate all the way down to the base of my spine. Jeffrey had studied the secrets of how breath gives you control over pain and energy. He guided me, step by step, through every deep exhalation. The combination of deep massage and his gentle monotone voice always left me as drowsy as a double martini and a long steam bath.

One day, I was drifting in that happy, almost intoxicated state when I felt Jeff's hands begin moving along the front of my body, moving lower and lower with each stroke until his fingertips were touching the tops of my breasts. In my dreamy condition, I honestly don't know if I was more amused, offended or surprised. When had my bookish son become so bold? I confess I let him play with me for a few minutes, allowing him to gently explore the boundary of my curves, and that I would have enjoyed the experience if I didn't think about who was touching me. But in spite of my reverie, I was about to put a stop to the whole thing when it happened.

Jeffrey's fingers slid down and made contact with my nipples, rubbing them between his talented fingertips as if it was part of the massage and my response was so instant, and so intense, that I was literally paralyzed. A thrilling erotic current flowed from my breasts to my heart, and then downward to my gut—a feeling so potent that it was almost nauseating—and then down further yet, all the way down to my sex, my clit, my thighs. My nipples became stiff as taffy. My panties dampened. And all of this was through my blouse and bra—I was still fully dressed! At first, I tried to pretend that I was still asleep, but I am certain my excited breathing gave me away—my God, it was all I could do to keep from moaning.

And my devious son did not stop with an exploratory touch—oh no, he just kept working on me, working on me, gently tugging, teasing my swollen nipples—and all the while, he kept talking to me, just as he did when he massaged my shoulders.

"Feel your nipples tingle . . . so nice and hard . . . so stiff . . . your breasts are so full and warm . . . feel that heat, like a liquid . . . feel it flow deep . . . all the way down your body . . . getting stronger as it goes lower . . . stronger . . . give in to it . . . give in . . . let go . . . let go . . ."

And when the electricity had traveled all the way from my nipples to my clit, I did let go, I let go completely with a delicious overpowering orgasm, and then immediately slipped into a perfect sleep.


It would be impossible to describe how conflicted I felt the next day. Guilt saturated every fiber of my being. I was the adult. I was the one who should have stopped it. At the same time, I had to think like a mother. I knew how utterly sexual that experience was. But I wondered if he felt that he had done nothing worse than to cop a feel off a woman when he thought she was asleep, not that that would be acceptable. Maybe he allowed himself to momentarily forget that I was his mother, just as I had allowed myself to forget that he was my son. I reminded myself a dozen times that he had never even unbuttoned my blouse. Nothing really happened, certainly nothing worth risking my entire relationship with him. Of course a young man is going to get precocious; he is at a point where he is supercharged with hormones. It's just human nature. For Christ sake, he was still a teenager.

I had spent years, maybe even decades, getting past the guilt and shame that I had associated with sex, the deep inhibitions that my childhood had inflicted on me. It was a frustrating and often humiliating struggle for me to come to terms with my sexuality and finally learn to savor my orgasms and lose myself in sex. The learning process might cost me my marriage. Jeff was a shy kid; I don't think he even had a girlfriend. The last thing I wanted to do was to inflict that same guilt and inhibitions on him. I knew how easily he could be scarred by a cruel accusation. I decided to never mention the matter. Officially, I was asleep for the whole thing. Unofficially, I vowed to never let it happen again.

My resolve lasted one week. After a particularly stressful day, my shoulders were aching to the point I at which I was about to cry, and Jeff, who once again was being so sweet and helpful with some work around the house, began to tease me on how I was declining his offers of relief.

"Come on, Mom," he said. "Let me help you."

And God forgive me, I succumbed to temptation.

The tension had so accumulated in my neck and upper back that his touch was almost too intense. When his fingertips pressed on my trigger points, the sensation radiated all the way down my legs to the tips of my toes. He needed a full half hour to break down the resistance in my muscles, thirty minutes of pressure and release, of a soft voice guiding my every breath. Thirty minutes to soften my body and mind. Thirty minutes to take me down. But when the armor around my shoulders finally melted, when my muscles became soft and pliable, the relief that overcame me was so sweet that I almost sobbed. All of the fears and anxieties, all of the messed up thoughts that had tormented me for the past week, left my mind and I fell into an almost childlike state of trust and relaxation.

This time, when his fingertips moved down to my breasts, I knew exactly what he was doing. But by then, I had no resistance left. My body had become completely compliant. And Jeff, from god only knows what well of experience, knew exactly how to manipulate me. My cunning boy would not even let me hide behind a feigned sleep. His palms slid over my breasts, cupping them fully and my nipples immediately came alive, swelling to hard nubs that he teased between his fingers as he massaged me. It was all I could do not to moan or squirm as my pussy creamed in response to his touch.

As he tugged on my inflamed tips, his soft voice droned on, "You love this, don't you . . . my hands feeling you up . . . feel how swollen they're getting . . . like they are filling up with lust . . . the tingling in your tits . . . that delicious thrill going down your spine . . . all the way to your clit . . . all the way to your wet clit . . . so wet . . . so very wet . . ."

Then, just as I was about to cum, just as I was right on the brink and there was no way I could stop, he said the perfect thing to set me off.

"You've been wanting me to do this to you all week, haven't you?"

Pleasure curled through my core, the pure sinfulness of what we were doing only making the sensations more intense. In my entranced state, I found it impossible to deny him the dark answer to his question. I said one word before I fell unconscious.



In time, we had a routine. Three times each week, three blessed escapes from reality, I would sit bolt upright in a low-backed chair and Jeffrey would massage me. He spent a brief time on my shoulders—with practice I was able to slip into a relaxed state much more quickly--then his hands moved inexorably onto my breasts.

As he gained in confidence, Jeff progressed to unbuttoning and opening my blouse. I still had some kind mental threshold against being completely exposed. But I facilitated his efforts by wearing lace bras from which I had cut an opening the size of my areolas in each of the tips with curved cuticle scissors. In seconds, my nipples were stiff and aching from his touch. It was as if someone had injected a potent aphrodisiac right into the hard points of my breasts with a hypodermic needle. The drug burned for just a second, then changed into a liquid warmth that seeped into my tits, causing them to swell as well, and from there drifted slowly, slowly—drifted right down to my pussy.

He always brought me to orgasm, and the orgasms were always strangely intense. There was something unique and magical about his touch to my nipples. Although my breasts had always been sensitive, no other man had ever made me cum with nipple play. And when I teased them myself, during masturbation, there was no special thrill, unless I imagined that the touch was forbidden, that it was Jeff who was doing it.

As for my guilt, I had generated a protective rationalization. This was not sex, it was massage, and therapeutic massage at that. We always kept our clothes on. There was no penetration. This was certainly not incest; it was not even really sexual.

Yes, yes, I know. I was living in deep denial. But as long as I managed to keep my panties on, in the deepest recesses of my mind I was somehow not engaging in sex play with my son.

One a gray and rainy afternoon, Jeff said he wanted to try a new technique on me. He drew the shades to further darken the room, and lit a single candle that he rested on a tabletop, level with my eyes. He asked me to focus on it while his hands massaged my shoulders and sought out the deep trigger points that released the tension in my body and made my mind so pliable.

The experience was a transformation. The candle light somehow pulled my every thought into the flame. With every exhalation, I felt myself go deeper and deeper into a state of absolute relaxation. My breath become silky as it flowed in and out of the cavern of my chest. I was free from the slightest distraction or anxiety. My body was completely without tension, yielding to his every touch. My mind opened like an unlocked jewelry case.

This time, Jeff did something he had never done before. After he opened my blouse, he moved in front of me, lowered his mouth to my breasts and began to suck on my stiff nipples. His mouth was wet and hot, and his rough tongue laved over the sensitive tips until every nerve in my body stood at attention. My head fell back and my eyes closed and I completely forgot myself as anything other than a woman.

If I had been capable of any thought, it would have been, "This feeling, this pure intense thrill, is what I live for. This makes it all worthwhile."

With his free hand, Jeffrey opened my slacks, and slid a single finger down to my slippery cleft. It rubbed through my folds, teasing, probing, until it came to my sopping opening and slid inside of me. I cried out, no longer able to stifle my moans as he pumped his finger in and out of my tight hole. It had been so long since anything had penetrated me that his single finger felt like a giant cock. His thumb rubbed against my clit, sparking electricity through my entire body. I came convulsively, helplessly, as he knew I would, and floated off into my warm floating dream state as he kept talking to me, telling me how hot I was, how wonderful, how sexy.

It had been the perfect sexual experience, except for one detail. A line had been crossed, and I knew that if I didn't act now, very soon we would escalate to full sex. That I could not allow.


My plan was carefully considered. I had worked out exactly what words I would use. Anticipating that Jeffrey might be tempted to, shall we say, unfairly influence the outcome, I went as far as to wear my thickest support bra, a heavy broadcloth dress shirt and my blue leather blazer to provide my breasts with as much protection as possible. Though I was used to exercising executive authority, I will admit that in dealing with my teenage son I had never felt more insecure. I went so far as to wear heels, which I normally despise, to give myself as much authority as my height would provide.

I planned to start by putting him at ease. It was important that this not be confrontational; that we not focus on blame or anger. My highest priority was that he emerge from this—this experience—undamaged by guilt or shame. I asked him to sit on the couch while I stood before him. Jeff, for his part, did not seem nervous at all. In fact, if I didn't know better, I would have thought that there was something in his emotional state that was eager.

"Jeff," I began, "This all started so innocently, and in the beginning what you did for me helped my neck and shoulders so much. But you have to know that we have reached a point that is just, well just wrong. We can't continue to do this, in any form."

I gushed out the points I wanted to make, "The most important thing is, you are not to blame. I'm not in any way angry with you or disappointed. I am the adult; I am the responsible one; I'm the one who owes an apology to you. The truth is, I don't really know just how I got so swept up—how I lost control. I know that nothing like this has ever happened before in my life—I don't mean the sexual aspect, of course, I mean the power—you know what I mean."

I was almost stammering. Jeff interrupted me.

"Oh, Mom," he said, "it's actually very simple. You know how trigger points work? You touch one part of the body and there is a release of energy in another part, sometimes a part that is quite a distance away. It's just the way our bodies are built. You understand that, don't you?"

I nodded, "yes," while not understanding a bit.

He continued, in that same soft monotone that I recognized from the times when he massaged me, "There are trigger points in the mind as well as the body, points that connect pools of energy, points that control and release that energy. All that happened was that you discovered a couple of points that released something . . . well, interesting."

I smiled involuntarily at his naïve characterization of what had happened, but felt a huge sense of relief. This was going to go much better than I expected. Best not to make too big a deal over it. Zoe need not ever find out. He stood up and moved closer to me. I was suddenly grateful that I was wearing my leather blazer.

"You discovered that with a single touch of your nipples I can sexualize you. Completely. Completely."

I felt my stomach sink. My God, he was going to do it again.

His voice now a whisper, he said, "You discovered I can take away all of your will, all of your control. That I can push a button and shut off your mind. Just the thought of it, now, just the thought of my fingers tugging on your nipples, is making them hard, isn't it? They are so beautiful when they're stiff and swollen. They get so hard they just ache. And when you get hot your breasts start swelling too, don't they? And you feel that cool thrill going all the way down your backbone, all the way to your thighs . . . to your knees . . . all the way down to your cunt. "

As he said that brutal word, those exact feelings went through my body. My nipples were taut in anticipation of his touch and my pussy was already soaking. I struggled for control. I knew that this time—this one time—I had to remain strong. Somehow he was priming my body. I could feel myself creaming into my panties, as if his voice had already touched one of my trigger points and I couldn't help but respond.

His soft, maddening words just went on and on.

"There are all kinds of triggers, Mom. You know about some . . . you are intimately familiar with some . . . some that involve touch . . . but some triggers are visual . . . like this."

And then, with breathtaking arrogance, Jeff leaned back slightly, opened his belt and jeans, and took out his already rock hard cock. He held in in one hand, slowly stroking it, intentionally pointing it right at my mouth. A wave of panic passed through me, but I couldn't look away. I actually felt my pussy spasm.

"See? How does this affect you, Mom? You can't take your eyes off of me, can you? You need to look, and not at my eyes. You need . . . to look at my cock . . . my cock . . . you can't even speak . . . your body is getting as weak . . . you can feel all of the strength draining out of your arms . . . all of the strength draining out of your legs . . . all the strength draining out of your mind . . . all your will draining out of you."

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