Her Manuscript

My mum had sent off her manuscript with a light heart to various publishers and we, that is Mum, Dad and I, had gone down the pub to celebrate the end of what had seemed to us to be months of giving her a wide berth while she went through tortuous writing, rewriting, correcting, binning, cursing, raging and finally emerging with a triumphant smile on her face, clutching the oeuvre to her ample bosom.

But that euphoria now seemed a distant memory as the weeks had gone by and the rejection slips had begun to drop ominously like tolling bells through our letterbox.

And that's why I'd now come home to find her slouched disconsolately in the kitchen, the latest publisher's reply screwed up in her hand while her tears fell unashamedly onto the tabletop. I dropped my backpack to the floor and rushed over to her, taking her into my arms and wiping the tears from her eyes and the smudged mascara from her cheeks. What I didn't attempt was to mop up the stream which had cascaded down her chest and turned her into a potential Wet T-shirt contestant.

"Hey, hey, Mum, it's alright, I'm here, shush now..."

"Oh, Ian, I've just received a rejection from the last publisher I sent my story to...that's it, they don't like it, it's over..."

"No it's not. It's not. Show me the letter."

I kept one arm round her shoulder, holding her to me while I spread out the creased, damp sheet of paper she proffered to me. I ironed it out across my lap because it was no use laying it out onto the table which at the moment was more like a reservoir. I began to read to the accompaniment of her sniffles, smoothing down her wavy blond hair and humming softly in a vain attempt to calm her.

"Mum, you know this letter is really not so bad..." another sniffle. "Okay, they've rejected it, but they're leaving you the option to revise it, edit it together with a few more things and then resubmit. Mum, that's not a total rejection, they're actually encouraging you..!"

"But they've all said 'no'. Just look at this pile of letters..."

She opened one. 'We are very sorry but at this moment we are not receiving...' and another, 'I am afraid we only accept from published authors...' and yet another, 'Our readership would not find this subject suitable...' She brushed them all off the table onto the floor.

"I really thought my story was good. At least I was sure it was better than some of the crap I read from these people..."

I honestly thought she should be aiming a little higher than a comparison to a turd, but I kept that to myself.

"Mum, it sounds like this last fellow is actually sincere. He does seem to have read it, unlike those others, and he does sound as if he's offering you some good advice, and as they say, 'If at first you don't succeed..."

"Give up on the lion taming?" She laughed through her tears and we fell into a soft hug, her breasts pressing up against me, making my own shirt damp, and my lips kissing through her scented hair. If it hadn't been my mission to bolster her confidence, I could have stayed like that a long time, but we broke apart and I sighed.

"The publisher says you should edit it. So, who did you find to edit the original?"

"The original? Well, nobody. I went through it all myself..."

"Stop right there. You're telling me nobody looked at the piece with a pair of fresh eyes and offered you suggestions? Not Aunty Joan or maybe someone in your office? Or Dad?"

"No, I..."

"But, Mum, that's one of the first rules of writing. You as the author, you're too involved in the story, you don't see mistakes which are totally obvious to the general reader. Look..." I went across to a shelf of her paperbacks and took down a couple, opening them at the pages where the authors had acknowledged all the help given them in the preparation of their works. Each one had referred to a long list of editors, proofreaders, researchers and general shoulders to cry on when the going got tough.

"You see? You shouldn't go it alone. Give it to me. I'll edit it for you."

"You? But you've got your studies, I can't ask you to spend time..."

"Shush. I've told you, I'll edit it. Now give me a copy."

"Well..."

"Now. Go."

"Well, if you're really sure..." and she levered herself up, giving me a tear-soaked smile, and went up to the spare room, her 'study', after throwing me another last shy glance and smile over her shoulder. While she was gone, I tidied the kitchen, gathering up the detritus of her rejection slips and wiping down the flooded tabletop.

When she reappeared, Mum had tidied herself up as well. She'd changed her blouse, combed through her hair and adjusted her mascara. I think she'd even added a few touches to her lipstick and the blusher in her cheeks. She suddenly looked very attractive and confident, though her first words belied my assumption. She held the bound folder up to her chest.

"I'm not sure, I mean, it's a bit risqué...you might think I'm a bit of a trollop...you're my son and I don't know if this would be suitable..."

"A trollop? Haha. Good one. Anyway, I'm nineteen and if I wanted to, I could join the army and they'd let me shoot people, so...hand it over."

I stretched out my arm and received the weighty folder into my hand.

"Please don't think less of me because of some of the things I've written..."

I placed the folder onto the table and turned to her, gripping her by the shoulders.

"Mum, nothing you could write could ever make me think less of you. You're gorgeous, you're talented and, if you've written anything even remotely deviously sexy in here, you can only improve your rating in my eyes."

She laughed and I hugged her again. I felt her breasts squashing up to my chest and her hands going up and down my back, pulling me even closer in. She looked up into my face and when I looked down it was to place my lips over hers. They were soft and pliant and...we pulled apart before I was tempted to go further.

"Ian, there's something you ought to know, I..."

"No, don't tell me anything. Let me just read this with an open mind and I'll get back to you after I've given it a first run-through."

With that, I placed a kiss on her nose, picked up the package and took it up to my room.

That evening and through the next day I read her story. I would come down to the kitchen occasionally for coffee and a snack, sensing Mum's eyes trying to drill through my head, but I studiously avoided her gaze until I'd completely finished the manuscript.

Then I came into the kitchen. She had her back turned, busy at the worktop, and I dropped the folder onto the table with a thud. Mum spun round and her gaze travelled from me to the manuscript and back again to me, a quizzical look in her eyes. I betrayed nothing and simply gestured for her to sit opposite me. She wiped her hands on a towel and took the chair, smoothing her skirt underneath her. She clasped her hands in front of her on the table and waited with a nervous smile for my judgement.

"The story's good." Her smile was less nervous. "The syntax is a bit iffy and needs work." Well, that was surely something that could be put right. "I wanted to empathize with the characters but I had some trouble relating to them." This elicited a small 'Oh'. "I was intrigued all the way to the last page, which is excellent." Her smile was now broad. A pause. "But..." Her smile vanished.

"Mum, how in hell was I ever conceived?"

"What???" A splutter then a gasp, "What?!?"

I leaned back in the chair and spread my hands out in front.

"Mum, I'm saying this as your editor. The seduction scenes, the sex scenes, they're...they're terrible."

I watched her go through various emotions, her face turning red, her eyes darting from side to side and her hands trying to grasp for something just out of reach. Then she calmed down, took a deep breath, re-clasped her fingers and looked me straight in the eye.

"I knew it was a mistake to give it to you, I mean, you're my son and...anyway, you've just reinforced what the others said..."

"No and no. I'm not your son here, I'm your editor, and I'm not rejecting it at all. I told you, the story's good." I smiled at her, "Though it could have been even more fun if you'd drawn on that trollop you mentioned. After all, the main character, Amanda, she was a bit..."

Mum looked at me quizzically. "Whorey?"

"A real tart."

"A floozy."

"A slut."

"A doxy."

"A doxy? I don't know that one...anyway, as your editor, and not your son, it's my duty to try to improve the book where I feel improvements are needed. Subject to the author's approval, of course. And how I suggest doing this..."

Mum raised one eyebrow.

"...is roleplay."

Mum bellowed a laugh out loud.

"Am I understanding you right and you're asking me to go seduce your dad? We haven't had s..." She stuttered into silence.

"Maybe the sex in your book sounds rusty because you're a bit...rusty?"

Mum was biting her lips.

"Tell you what, let's leave Dad out of it then, and maybe you can try things out on, umm, me?"

Mum looked both shocked and confused.

"No, no. Don't get your knickers in a twist. I don't mean the full business, of course, but the techniques, the lead-up to it all, it all sounds a bit dry and labored. I could help you with that. It's, um, fresher in my mind?" I smiled and arched my eyebrows suggestively.

Mum laughed.

"Well judging by some of the noises that used to come from your room when you were going out with that Janice, that's probably true."

It was now my turn to blush at my memories of hot Jan. I closed my eyes for a second and wonderfully triple X-rated pictures flew through my mind.

"Ian?"

I opened my eyes and we both grinned at one another.

"I've a feeling you'll make a great teacher."

My grin grew even wider.

"Alright then," I patted the folder, "Let's set a few ground rules, shall we?"

Mum showed no sign of dissent but merely tilted her head in expectation.

"A lot of your story depends on this frisson between the two main characters, and I think we've got to bring this out more, make them more three-dimensional, not just write about the physical aspects, but what's going on inside their heads, what they can see, hear, smell - I guess I'm talking about all the senses, so that goes for taste as well...you've got that bit in the back of the car in chapter seven where taste can definitely play a part...?"

"Most definitely." Mum smiled but kept her gaze bashfully on the table in front of us.

"But there's more, there are sensations you feel inside when there's interaction, like shock, or a tingle of pleasure..."

I stretched my foot out and stroked across her ankle. Mum's eyes opened wide, but instead of withdrawing her foot, saw the humor in my eyes and after a moment, returned the gesture. We were both in our bare feet, and my agile toes toyed with hers, gripping her little toe and gently tugging. This was new for both of us, and Mum reciprocated by bringing her other foot into play and caressing underneath my sole.

This carried on for five minutes or so and the whole business was becoming strangely hot. This was my mum, after all, but you wouldn't have known it.

Mum's strokes also became more subtle and varied. She had lost herself completely to the game. It was as though in her mind - surely in her mind because she'd closed her eyes and all her concentration was now focused on what was happening below - it was her hands that were caressing me up and down.

"Keep your eyes closed. Now, ease your way round to my side of the table. But subtly. We don't want to give the game away."

Mum smiled without opening her eyes.

"Subtly? Er..."

Mum did well until she reached the corner of the table.

"Um, I don't think I can do 'subtle' round the corner..."

"Aha!"

Mum's eyes flashed open in surprise.

I released her foot and flicked through the pages of her manuscript until I came to the bit I was looking for.

"The scene in the Italian restaurant where they start playing footsie under the table without the husband knowing, and then sliding subtly round, your words, until they were practically side by side..."

"Well?"

"You said it was a square table. Now if you'd given them a round table..."

At that moment, Dad came through to the kitchen to make himself a half-time cup of coffee. His team were not doing well.

"Dad. Mum and me, we thought you might like to go out to the Italian this evening for a meal, to celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

"Your team avoiding relegation."

But we're two-nil down..."

"Then to commiserate and to hope for a miracle next season."

Dad seemed to consider this, shrugged his shoulders and said, "Alright then, commiseration it probably is..."

Dad returned to the lounge and I turned back to Mum.

"You are so sly." She grinned.

Well, I did feel fairly self-satisfied. "One last thing," I said, standing up, "this roleplay..."

"Oh..?"

"You're going as Amanda. So dress, um, appropriately."

"But she's a sl..."

I nodded. "Yup. Oh, and we've still got a couple of hours and you don't have to bother preparing a meal now, so maybe in the meantime go do a rewrite while some things are still fresh?"

She raised her eyebrows, smiled and also nodded.

That was the last I saw of her until she made her spectacular entrance a few hours later. It was the unaccustomed sound of her high heels which first made Dad and me glance round. If anything was guaranteed to draw Dad out of his football misery, it was surely the sight of Mum wearing a dark-red dress that began well below her neck and finished well above her knees. She was already wearing a short jacket over it which served to cover most of her bosom, but she hadn't yet buttoned it up, and the vertical slash of flesh between the lapels offered a tantalizing glimpse of what might be uncovered once we were inside the restaurant.

I couldn't resist lagging slightly behind as we went out to the car. Mum's jacket finished just above her ass, and that horizontal cut served to emphasize the hypnotic undulation beneath it as we walked down the path. The click of her heels was also accompanied by a soft zizz sound as the nylons at her inner thighs brushed against one another. Nylons? She waited by the rear door of the car as Dad unlocked it. He didn't offer to open it for her, so I leapt into the breach and did it instead, putting my hand to the small of her back while she smiled back at me and maneuvered herself inside. The glimpse of stocking top and bare thigh as she sat was only fleeting, but it was duly noted, and Mum reinforced the fact by tossing me a quick wink as I closed her door.

Inside the restaurant the lights were low and I knew Dad's reaction would probably be that he 'couldn't see the bloody menu', but for our purposes it was ideal. The ambience was that of a small Tuscan village, the background music was soft and unobtrusive, and the rather small round tables seemed specially designed to promote a convivial, friendly atmosphere. I nudged Mum and pointed one of them out to her, describing a circle with my finger as I did so. She grinned in acknowledgement.

A waitress showed us to our places and I took Mum's coat from her shoulders. The ensuing display of bosom should have woken any remotely warm-blooded creature out of its torpor. Even the waitress seemed momentarily impressed. But Dad barely seemed to notice, still being consumed by his football team's catastrophic misfortunes.

The meal itself was delicious. Dad threw the car keys towards me and decided that I should be the one to drive back home so that he might be free to down copious amounts of red wine in order to drown his sorrows. We batted jokes back and forth about his team, but eventually and inevitably the conversation turned to Mum's book.

I told him I thought it was good but just needed a few tweaks to bring out the best and that I would be helping her. As I said 'tweaks' I brought my foot across to rest it up against Mum's, and slid it softly up and down. Mum's reaction was to slide her shoe off that foot and wriggle her nylon-encased toes up into the leg of my jeans.

"Well, rather you than me," sighed Dad. "Literature's not really my thing, I prefer stuff on the telly, so good luck with that."

"So, Dad, you're giving me permission to use all the means at my disposal in order to help Mum?" Her toes were delving higher.

"Of course. I mean, you might have to stroke her occasionally along the way, but anything for a bit of peace and quiet."

I'd already unobtrusively shifted my position closer to that of my mum, who said, "Aw, thanks for that, love. And Ian? You can stroke me any time you like." She smiled and reached out to pat my arm and in so doing, also managed to creep her chair round closer towards mine.

As the meal progressed, so did our subtle movements towards one another. Eventually, most of my leg was pressing up against Mum, and I discovered that one of the good things about pasta is that you can eat it using just your fork. My other hand had come down and was stationed on my lap when it was gently taken hold of and repositioned onto Mum's mid-thigh.

It rested there momentarily and I could feel the small bulge of her suspender clasp beneath my palm. The hem of her dress was already well above her knees, so it took me very little time to draw it upwards with my fingers until it was concertinaed within my grip and the tips of my fingers were toying with the clasp itself.

Which direction now, up or down? I chose neither, but decided instead to caress round the bare flesh above the top of her stocking. But as I delved round towards her inner thigh, Mum brought her other leg inwards and pinned my hand in a soft, warm embrace. I tried to wriggle my fingers and she replied by simply frotting her legs tightly up and down, one smooth thigh sliding against the other. My little finger managed to garner itself some movement, but what with my hand facing downwards, there was only one direction that finger could signal. Her legs were even warmer and more pressed together up there, but the urgent movement of my finger persuaded Mum to relent and she relaxed her legs ever so slightly. This allowed my hand to move surreptitiously further up her leg until my finger came up against a wall of material that was at once soft, warm, yielding... and damp.

Pushing my hand a further inch into the source of that dampness elicited an extended "Mmm..." from Mum.

Dad misinterpreted this and agreed that the food was indeed very tasty.

I said, "Yeah. Mum, you've got to try some of this creamy mushroom sauce. Taste it, it's delicious..." I speared a piece of my pasta penne, swirled it around in the white sauce and offered it up to Mum. She parted her lips but didn't take it straight into her mouth. No. Rather, while locking her eyes onto mine, she cocked her head to one side and preferred to suck the sauce through the hollow pasta tube. And then she opened her lips wider to take it all inside. This was a bit clumsy because some of the sauce lingered around the corner of her mouth, and because I'd offered it to her with a fork, her delaying tactics while sucking the pasta had only served to let some of the sauce drip down onto her upper chest. Because her outfit was so low-cut there was little chance of it spoiling the dress, but there was a trickle of the liquid burrowing down into the deep chasm between her breasts.

"Oh, silly me...!" she uttered, and, holding my gaze, she pulled the top of her dress out away from her chest, revealing the top of a very lacy black bra which barely reached to cover her nipples, and dabbed at the spillage with a napkin.

"I'm so, so clumsy...I should have swallowed it all in one go. I guess I'm out of practice."