22 comments/ 178196 views/ 94 favorites The Taboo Folder By: geronimo_appleby Right, okay, so here's My Valentine's Day Contest entry. I hate to begin with an apology, but time, geography, other writing commitments, lack of electricity, too many Chang beers and, of course, laziness on my part means that I had to sprint for the line with this one. I hope the result isn't too appalling or disappointing, but I did want to get this in for the competition. Okay, it's an incest piece. The young man has a folder on the shared computer just chock full of incest video clips. His mother finds it and is, at first, shocked. But she can't keep away and goes back to look at the stuff her son has squirrelled away. Then she finds a draft of a Valentine's Day scene penned by her son (which is the prologue to this piece). It goes on from there. Due to the time concern, and I only have a couple of hours left to get this re-read and submitted, there will undoubtedly be errors in the text. I'm sorry, I apologise wholeheartedly, however I also hope that you enjoy the piece. I'd best get on with it. Thanks for reading. GA -- Ranong, Thailand -- 5th February 2014. Prologue She surprises me with the candles and the tablecloth, the red wine and music. I tell her so, but she just looks at me and smirks. Then I notice the close-fitting tee and how it's moulded to her high, tight tits. Then the mini skirt and high heels catch my attention. She looks good; in fact, my mother looks very good. So I tell her that as well. "I'm glad you approve," she says back to me, and I get the sense she's teasing. "There's just you and me now," my mother replies when I ask why we're having a dinner like this. It's Valentine's Day, it's meant to be about love and romance. It isn't a time for mother and son. "I haven't got anyone else to spend Valentine's evening with," she adds. "So I thought we'd make it a special dinner anyway. Just the two of us." There's a look in her eye and a catch in her voice that makes my cock hard. I remind myself this is my mother, but her legs and the fact she isn't wearing a bra beneath the tee turns me on. "You don't mind?" she asks me. "It isn't ... weird, is it?" I actually think it's a bit strange, but of course I don't say that. There's something going on that I can't put my finger on -- It's in the way she's dressed, the way she looks at me, and although the idea is there at the back of my mind, I daren't think about it too hard. It's as though actually allowing myself to study the question will make it melt away like an ice-cube on a hot day. "I don't mind, mum," I reply, shrugging one shoulder as I pull a face. "It isn't as though I've got a girlfriend and have to rush out." And then she just says it. The words come out of her and I'm staring. "I could be your girlfriend." She's right up close; my mother is standing there while I sit like a stone on one of the chairs at the revamped and romantically decorative kitchen table. Then she turns, her backside to me, with her thighs so close all I have to do is reach out a hand and... But I'm too shocked to do a thing. So stunned I can't move. Even breathing is suddenly difficult, a conscious effort. "Would you like that, Carl?" she asks. Her voice is low and husky, really sexy, and hearing my mother say that to me makes my cock go stiff. I have that funny tickle in the pit of my stomach. I'm all pumped up and horny, just like when I watch those video clips and tug my dick. I'm so fucking randy sitting there with my mother's fantastic legs so close, but all I can mutter in reply is an inarticulate, "Uh--" I want to tell my mother that I'd love it if she was my girlfriend. She doesn't know it, but I've been looking at incest porn and having a really good time. I've thought about my mother as I've wanked, imagining her all naked and sexy with me. Of course, all that is just a fantasy, I never thought she'd ever go for it if I made a move. My mother laughs and then slowly lifts her skirt. "Mum," I groan when I see her round and very taut bottom. And what makes it even better is she's not wearing any underwear. "For God's sake," she hisses at me as she looks back over one shoulder. "Touch me. Feel my legs and tell me how touching me makes you feel." Oh but her legs feel good. I'm stroking my mother's thighs and can't believe how smooth her skin is beneath my fingers. She purrs, actually purrs as she shuffles her feet and basically invites me to slide my hand right up to her pussy. My mother moans and her head falls loose when I stir two fingers around the folds of her labia. "Yes," she mutters, more a comment to herself, as though it's 'mission accomplished'. "Put a finger inside me," she sighs. "Rub my clit, darling. Feel me. Feel mummy's cunt." Dinner is forgotten when I feel the slippery folds of my mother's sex. I'm on my feet and I'm kissing her. The trigger was her sighing out that obscenity. My mother devours those kisses, with her tongue in my mouth and her tee-shirt hiked up to show off round tits and pebble-sized nipples. She's as horny as I am, and her pussy is soaking, squelching as my fingers work at her. Then we're in the living room. She's tumbled back onto the three-seater sofa and I'm standing in front of her. I look down while she rearranges herself, skirt up around her waist, tee-shirt pulled up over her boobs. I take stock, the realisation hitting me a hammer blow that this is my own mother. I love the way her long black hair is piled up all messy on top of her head. Some strands have come loose and whisper against her temples as she looks up at me with huge green eyes, her red-painted mouth grinning at me. I've always thought my mother is pretty -- she's slim and toned, especially since she hit the gym and started to eat healthily after a messy time when my father did one a few years ago. Mum went off the rails, as they say, when dad did her over and buggered off with a young woman from work. But she got herself on track, built up her business, and now we're doing all right. She has men after her. I've seen them looking, but other than a couple of dickhead boyfriends she hasn't bothered much with men at all in recent months, probably a year or two now I come to think about it. Anyway, my mum is a looker with a lovely figure, and yeah, I'll admit to wanking off while thinking about her. That's how I got into the incest porn anyway. I've tugged my dick and imagined fucking my mum, using the gutter-mouthed models in proxy. I just never imagined it would ever become reality. "I'm going to suck your cock," my mother murmurs. She reaches out for my belt, the buckle chinking as her fingers work at the fastening. The button comes loose and the zip goes down and then my mother hauls jeans and boxers to my knees. "Oh," she says when she sees me rock hard and ready. "What a lovely cock," she adds. "So big and stiff." I can't help it, but when she uses a hand on my length and then wraps those scarlet lips around my cock-head the stuff just squirts out of me. I groan and gasp and try to tell her but it's happening before I can blurt a warning. The force of that first jet makes my mother gag and cough, and my cock falls out of her mouth as it continues to spit jizm everywhere. Before I know it my mother's pretty face is spoiled by thick spunk clinging to her cheek, with more of the stuff laying across the bridge of her nose, a glistening rope in her hair. Her tee-shirt is spattered too, stained with ejaculate. "Bloody hell!" my mother yelps when it all starts. But she recovers quickly, laughing as she wipes at the mess on her cheek with the back of a hand. Then she takes hold of my cock again, muttering about how hard it still is as she fists the length of it. Next, while keeping her eyes locked on mine throughout, she tells me to stand up, then squats and takes my cock between her lips again. Her mouth makes popping sounds, like the cork from a champagne bottle as she sucks at the big domed end of my dick. She seems to really enjoy teasing me with her eyes while she does that, her cheeks going concave before -- pop! -- and her tongue swirls around the gloopy mess leaking out of me. "Is it going to stay hard?" she asks, rising to her feet, a hand still working my stiffness. I know from experience watching incest porn that I'll stay hard, that it won't be a problem. Not a problem at all. "Yes, mum," I say. She smiles at me and then leans in to kiss my mouth. "Goody," she replies, whispering. "Then let's go up to bed, my bed," she adds pointedly. "Make this a Valentine's to remember." One IT TOOK Louise Cross more than a few seconds before her brain accepted what her eyes were seeing. She stared at the screen, the word was right there beneath the folder icon. Her emotions were in tumult because of it. One hand cupped the mouse, the feel of the hard plastic shell beneath her fingers penetrating the fugue to remind her of where she was and what she had been doing. She was at the computer and had been about to attack invoices which had built up, the chore a pressing necessity. But then she'd found it. Louise saw the pointer slide across the screen until it lay directly over the folder; her forefinger rose. All it would take was a click of the mouse. She sat there, poised on the brink for a few moments before she released the mouse and pushed away from the desk with both hands. The casters rolled easily across the carpet until the chair came to a halt a yard away. She rose to a half-crouch, her buttocks hovering inches above the seat, with Louise's attention on the computer screen, held there by the folder icon and its shocking label. "Shit," she muttered, collapsing back onto the seat before she scooted forward. Louise knew she would have to look. Despite being appalled by the potential she couldn't let it lie, nosiness had always been a forte of hers. The mouse was in her palm once more. It rolled easily over the mat, the pointer on the screen following remotely along in a smooth arc until the arrow lay over the folder once more. Louise sighed and swore again. But, inexorably, her finger pressed down in a double click on the mouse, and the two-point-five gig of information was available to her. She saw the familiar blue W of Word documents mixed in with an unfamiliar icon that looked to her like a traffic cone, orange with two white horizontal stripes. Then, when she registered some of the titles affixed to the documents and traffic cones, Louise gasped. "Oh my God," she muttered, eyes wide, jaw hanging slack. The mouse pointer described several jerky circles while Louise scrolled through the contents of the folder. She picked one at random, one of the traffic cones, her finger working before her conscious mind realised her intent. There was a pause of several beats while the computer responded to the command, and then a video screen opened up in front of Louise. She stared with appalled fascination as a woman of indeterminate middle age -- early-to-mid forties Louise registered dimly, perhaps a little older -- opened a door and peered round at a much younger man lying on a bed. Breakfast, the woman said, her accent English Home Counties. In that vague part of her brain that was capable of reasonably coherent thought, Louise appraised the pair. The woman, her blonde bob a little untidy and in need of attention, spoke with a whisky voice, her eyes twinkling with devilment, her enjoyment obvious as she stepped into the room. On the bed, the dark-haired young man rolled over from what was meant to be sleep. Hello, mum, he said, hefting himself into a sitting position, a broad chest and muscular arms coming into view. When the woman moved into the room, Louise noticed her face showed signs of her age, with crows' feet at the corners of her eyes, a feature that told of a sense of humour and a tendency towards smiling and laughter, an impression fortified by the perpetual grin the woman seemed to favour. She wasn't exactly pretty, she was a touch too careworn for that, but Louise could see a certain appeal in the feline eyes that glittered with mischief, and the way the blonde carried herself, so certain and confident only heightened her sex appeal. The woman wore a sleeveless summer dress, light cotton with a blue floral pattern, scooped low at the front to reveal a deep crevasse between what were obviously large breasts, and again, her mind operating on a vague level, Louise dimly registered that the woman had a decent figure. What would you like with your breakfast? the woman asked in a flirtatious manner, her smirk twitching as she posed with her hands on her hips. Coffee ... tea... She paused and shifted her feet, turning so she was square on to the man in the bed, tossing her head and thrusting out her generous bosom before adding a gravel-voiced and very provocative, Or me? "Shit," Louise hissed through her teeth when the on-screen action cranked up several gears and, immediately after her lewd offer, the woman lifted the hem of the dress to her waist to reveal dark stockings and suspender belt. The man on the bed grinned and rolled up onto his knees when the woman clambered onto the bed. This is going to be a great breakfast, mum, he said, his eyes roving. The woman's expression matched her son's when she nodded and crawled slowly towards him on hands and knees. What have you got for me? she asked, reaching out a hand to yank the duvet from the man's body. A nice big sausage? If she hadn't been stunned by the suggestion that mother and son were about to commit incest, Louise would have groaned at the cheesy dialogue. "Oh God," she mumbled. "Shit ... Oh fuck." On screen the young man, who Louise estimated to be in his early twenties, was on his back, his fist slowly stroking his erection while he eyed the blonde hungrily. "No," breathed Louise, aghast. "You can't--" The woman was still on hands and knees, her stare centred on the long, thick hard-on in the man's hand. Here," she said, reaching for it. Let mummy suck that big cock. "No, he's your son", Louise sighed. She shook her head from side-to-side, attention rapt with her wide eyes fixed to the appalling scene developing in front of her. "No," she repeated. But the woman had hold of the man's cock, her grip low down at its root. She stroked it a few times, grinning at the young man before her mouth opened and her lips pursed around the cock-head. Two IT WAS after five in the afternoon when Carl returned home after a day at work. It was the moment Louise had been dreading all day, and she wondered if he would be able to tell how mixed up she was just by looking. "Hello, mum," Carl said, dumping the day-sack he carried with him onto one of the four balloon-backed chairs set around the kitchen table. Louise, with her back to her son as she pretended to be busy at the counter, swallowed heavily, her mind taken back to the greeting the son in the video clip had given the blonde woman when she had first appeared at his bedroom door. "Good day?" warbled Louise, her voice tremulous. She sensed rather than saw her son's shrug. "Not bad," replied Carl. He moved to his mother's side and snatched up a slice of carrot she was in the process of chopping. "Got a decent tip for a job I did on a bloke's bike," he added, crunching on the carrot before leaning in to kiss his mother's cheek. Louise felt her stomach give a curious flip when Carl's lips touched her face. Her breath caught in her throat and she slipped with the knife, almost taking off the tip of her forefinger. "Whoa! Watch it, mum," said Carl, full of concern. Louise placed the knife down next to the wooden chopping board, forcing herself to turn and face her son. "Don't distract me," she said with more vehemence than the situation warranted. "Why don't you go and have a shower. Let me finish prepping dinner." Then, seeing Carl's blink of surprise at her sharp tone, Louise softened. "Go on, Carl," she added quietly, the love she felt for her son curdling with her discovery on their shared desktop computer. "You always come home smelling of engines. Go on," Louise pushed a hand against her son's chest to shoo him away, "shower. Now. Tea will be ready in half-an-hour." Carl gave his mother a rueful look, believing her sharpness with him to be all about personal hygiene. "Okay," he said, grabbing the day-sack from the chair. "Give me a shout when you want me to come down." He threw his mother a grin. "I'll smell all lovely." "Then go on," Louise responded, pointing to the ceiling with the knife she'd just retrieved from the work surface. Then, when her son had made his exit, she looked at the space he'd occupied, her mind full of conflict. * CARL CLIMBED the stairs to the second storey of the ten-year-old semi-detached house they had moved into just after the place had been built. Carl had been nine at the time, the family a complete unit until his father took it into his head that he would trade in his wife for a younger model. These days it was just Carl and his mother, with Carl's job as a motorcycle mechanic helping towards the mortgage and other household expenses, while Louise worked hard at her online jewellery business. Times had been hard at first, especially in the days before Carl had left school, but now, with him earning and Louise's business taking an upward turn, things had improved. Carl's first act was to drop his day-sack into his bedroom before he stripped out of his clothes, leaving them in an untidy heap for his mother to complain about, which she usually did once a week on average, despairing that her son would ever learn to tidy up after himself. He showered, padding wet footprints onto the cream carpet from the bathroom to his own bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, the ribbed muscles of his stomach visible. He opened the top drawer of a four-tier unit and selected a tee-shirt before moving to a canvas-fronted wardrobe, a self-assembly unit from the Argos chain, all soft blonde wood and shiny, brass-coloured screws, from which he took a loose-fitting pair of jogging bottoms. Dressed, Carl checked the red numerals on the front of the digital alarm clock on the unit next to his bed and, assessing he had quarter of an hour until his mother called him down to eat, went into the guest bedroom slash home-office and fired up the computer. The machine went through its usual lengthy boot-up process, the time it took for the damned machine to decide it was ready to play making him humph with frustration. "Finally," Carl said, the word loaded with irony as the familiar desktop appeared. But, no sooner had he spoken than he felt an icy prickle run down his spine. "Oh," Carl blurted, throwing an unthinking glance towards the door. "Oh fuck--" He gulped, throat working heavily while anxiety squeezed his guts. Liquid dread threatened his sphincter. Carl couldn't understand it, he was usually so careful. What had he been thinking the last time he closed down the machine? Carl thought back to his last session on the computer, reliving the last moments of the previous evening when his mother had been next door with Jean. Okay, she'd come back and caught him by surprise, the sound of the front door closing and her voice coming up the stairs making Carl rush to yank up his tracksuit bottoms... But he was sure he'd clicked on the Properties tab and selected Hidden in the appropriate menu. Although, there it was plain as day against the black background of the desktop: a yellow folder entitled Incest. It couldn't be any more obvious; he hadn't even tried to disguise the folder with another name. "Oh ... Oh, shit," Carl moaned, appalled at the lapse, mortified by the potential for discovery by a third party. The Taboo Folder It didn't bear thinking about. His mother seeing the folder and discovering his dirty little secret was too awful to contemplate. Even as he sat there, the folder a silent mockery, its title screaming out perversion, Carl felt his face burn. His sphincter tightened again, his toes actually curling while Carl groaned out loud. His mind whirled for answers, wondering if his mother had been on the computer that day, hoping desperately that she hadn't. It wasn't every day she used the desktop, preferring her laptop machine at the kitchen table for day-to-day running of her business. But she did use the desktop as a back-up for her files, and all Carl could do was hope like hell that today wasn't one of those days his mother had decided on some corporate housekeeping. What were his options? He could, he decided, simply delete the entire file; he could just wipe it away and forget it. Although, after going as far as sending the file to the Recycle Bin, Carl couldn't bring himself to dump the likes of Jane Bond and Wendy Taylor into the void. He sat there, his finger hovering over the mouse. Carl sighed and restored the folder to the desktop, ultimately coming to the decision to hide the folder as usual before subsequently keeping the thing on a flash drive he would purchase at the earliest opportunity. With the job done, and after double-checking the icon was really hidden from casual view, Carl closed down the machine and rolled the office chair away from the desk. Worry gnawed at him as he left the home-office, shoulders hunched with a dejected air. Carl considered his mother's attitude when he'd arrived home after work, but dismissed her shortness of manner as any indication she had in fact found the folder. Surely, he reasoned as he sat on the end of his bed, if his mother had made the shocking discovery she wouldn't be so together. She would either be wildly outraged or intensely awkward, and Carl thought he knew his mother well enough that her earlier behaviour showed no real sign she was privy to the awful, deeply embarrassing secret. By the time Louise called up that the evening meal was ready, Carl had convinced himself that he had nothing to worry about. He would buy the flash drive anyway, just in case. The possibility of another mistake coupled with the scare he'd suffered were a wake-up call. As it happened, the more Carl watched his mother that evening, the less inclined he was to accept that there was anything to be concerned about, the thought process making him complacent in the light of the following day. Carl forgot to buy a flash drive, putting it off for another time when he eventually remembered. Time passed. Days went by. Mother and son slid along in the same old groove. Although, for Louise, things were most definitely altered. Three SHE GOT through that first evening in Carl's presence by simply blocking it out. Louise behaved as normally as she could find it in herself to do so, with the half-an-hour or so her son had been upstairs giving her at least some time to take stock. She couldn't, Louise reasoned, simply come out and ask Carl about the porn on the computer. How the hell would she do that? What could she do? It would be impossible to just say, "Hi son, let's talk about the porn on the computer. I'm especially interested in the folder marked incest. "Oh, Jesus," Louise had blasphemed, eyes rolling with chagrin at the prospect of that conversation. "No way." She shook her head, emphatically denying the possibility of confrontation as she lit the gas rings on the cooker hob, the routine chore of making dinner oddly therapeutic despite her huge shock. So Louise rattled pots and pans, pushing the nature of her son's interests to the back of her mind and got through the evening unscathed, the sordid nature of the folder's contents only coming to the forefront of her mind as she lay in her big bed later that night. The following day Carl left the house as normal, with Louise remaining in her bed until she was sure he was gone. The computer taunted her, the flat-eyed stare of the blank screen mocking as she walked naked along the landing. Louise paused when she passed the home-office on her way to the bathroom. She preferred a long soak in the tub as opposed to showering in her en-suite, the route along the landing taking her past the open door. The computer sat on the desk, silently mocking. Louise felt an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach, a visceral tug that suddenly bloomed with heat between her legs. The image of the blonde actress's face came unbidden, her knowing and delighted smirk causing a ripple of sexual arousal within Louise. The brazen, whisky-voiced question echoed inside Louise's head: Coffee ... tea ... or me? She saw again the way the model had presented herself to the young man, the man who was supposedly her own son. The blonde had flaunted herself, shoving her big boobs forward, offering them to her son. Louise recalled, with a shudder of arousal, how long and thick those nipples had been. "Oh, fuck," she moaned aloud to the absent blonde. "How bloody horny were you? You dirty, perverted bitch," Louise mumbled. "How could filming that disgusting scene turn you on?" But, despite her vocal condemnation, Louise couldn't deny the pulse between her legs, and when she glanced down to examine her own modestly-sized breasts she gasped, appalled to discover her own nipples were thick, elongated points of flesh. "No," she muttered, shaking her head. "No way." But a few minutes later Louise was sitting in the office chair, her stomach churning like a washing machine on full spin as she willed the desktop computer to hurry up through its boot-up process. But when the damned machine finally lit up, there was no sign of the little yellow folder. "Shit," spat Louise, surprising herself with the vehemence of her response. "Where is it?" she mumbled, her eyes roving over the screen in a fruitless search. "He's deleted it!" Then the idea came to her. She went into the directory and trawled for files entitled incest, giving a squawk of triumph when it came up trumps. "You hid it. You cunning bugger," Louise murmured as her fingers worked the mouse and keys. Louise didn't want to think too much about her own motivation as she opened the same video clip as the previous day. The controls were simple enough, and it didn't take long for her to locate the point in the clip from which she'd left off. * THE BLONDE model sucked and slurped and managed to convey the general notion that she was very enthusiastic about sucking her son's dick, and regardless of her trying to convince herself she was honestly horrified, Louise soon found herself engrossed in the action. It went on for a minute or two, with the man mumbling his approval, telling his mother how much he enjoyed the sensation of her quick, pink tongue sliding over his cock-head. Next, the mother figure rose upright, lifting the dress up over her large bosom in one fluid movement before pulling it over her head. Then she scooped her breasts from the cups of her bra one at a time, covering the nipples and areolae with her palms for several seconds, her perennial smirk on her face. That cunning, devious look, a cat-with-the-cream expression, flooded Louise's vulva with heat. The woman knew exactly what she had to do and was only too pleased to do it. "Oh, mum," the man muttered when the blonde finally exposed her breasts. "They're beautiful." "You naughty boy," said the model, her smile widening. "You shouldn't look at mummy's tits." Louise noticed immediately that the model's breasts were an example of surgical enhancement, a superb example to be sure, an opinion apparently shared by the son as he lunged and mauled at the round globes. "Mum..." the young man mumbled around a mouthful of tit-flesh. He gasped and snuffled, sucking a long nipple between his lips. "Ooh, yes, darling," the blonde responded, her head going back as she winced with pleasure. "Suck them, baby. Go on, my darling, suck mummy's breasts." "They're so big and heavy, mum," said the man, his tone appreciative while he hefted his mother's boobs with both hands. "Fucking lovely." "I want you to lick me now," the woman said on a long sigh. She eased onto one hip, rolling sideways and over until she was resting on her back. "Watch the bed cover," Louise muttered when she saw the heels of the woman's shoes dig into the bedding. The blonde wedged her feet against the bed, taking some of her weight on her shoulders as she arched her back and her hips came up. "I have to get my knickers off," she said, grunting with effort until the young man moved to a position where he could assist. In a graceful movement the model lifted both legs, heels pointing at the ceiling, knees locked while the young man eased her underwear up over her thighs. After leaning up, legs falling wide to exhibit her thick-lipped pussy, the blonde hooked the knickers over her shoes and cast the garment aside. "Ooh, go on," the actress breathed. "Do I taste good?" The young man was between his mother's legs by that point. He laid full length on his front while the model held herself wide open. "You're wet, mum," he replied, grinning up at his mother before his face went down to her vulva again. "That's because I'm so fucking hot for you, darling," the blonde groaned. She moaned loud and long, and something about the sound told Louise it was no exaggeration. The woman might be playing a role, but it was clearly one she relished. Louise shifted her bare rump against the office chair, the abrupt realisation coming to her that she was naked. Almost of its own volition, as though Louise herself had no control, her hand went down between her legs. "Oh, fuck," she grunted when her fingers found the sodden core of her sex. "Oh no, you can't ... You can't do it." On screen the man was lapping away, his tongue going like a thirsty Labrador's. He snuffled at the woman while she moaned and sighed and mumbled words of encouragement, taking every opportunity to show how much she appreciated her son's oral attention. "Come on," the woman grunted, scooting up the bed until her shoulder blades rested on one squashed pillow. "Give me some of that gorgeous cock," she groaned. Again, for Louise, it was the expression on the blonde's face that got to her, the desire exhibited in the look that had her fingers sliding at her sex. The model, face slack with lust, spoke directly to the camera, a little trick that seemed to be designed to make the viewer take on the part of the son, her dialogue suitably filthy: "Do you want to fuck mummy's wet cunt?" she breathed, her face in close-up. "You do, don't you, you naughty boy? You want to put that big cock inside your mother." Seeing the woman's anticipation, her face twisted into a rictal grimace that appeared to border on agony, her desire apparent in the tone of her voice and the gravel-voiced obscenities, caused Louise to moan. Pleasure exploded inside her, sparks from her excited clitoris like synaptic eruptions in the brain. "Oh, you bitch," Louise mumbled as, on screen, the young man slid the length of his cock into his mother's body. "You dirty lucky fucking bitch..." * LOUISE SAT at the kitchen table and sucked at the cigarette. She grimaced at the stale taste of it, wondering at how old the pack in the drawer was. It had been there since her wild days following her husband's departure. Determined to suffer, forcing penitence following her disgraceful weakness in front of the computer, Louise doggedly smoked the entire length of the white cylinder down to the tan-coloured inch of the butt. She was appalled at the way her body had responded, and was even more distressed by the fact she'd been turned on enough to masturbate over such depraved filth. But the lure of it, the pull of the taboo had been too strong to resist. "Come on," Louise said to herself as she ground out the stub of her cigarette with more force than was necessary. "Get some work done." She stood up, the feet of the chair scrawking across the tiled floor. There were orders to put together; she didn't have time to sit around in a daze flagellating herself for a momentary lapse. Because that's all it was -- a one-off, a lapse of morality that would never, ever be repeated. She was determined; never again would she allow herself to weaken. As for her son, well, Carl was nineteen, an adult capable of making choices. If he had a thing for disgusting pornography, there was absolutely nothing she could do to alter his tastes. She couldn't imagine even trying. Louise gave a huge sigh and shuffled out of the kitchen. She managed to last an hour before abandoning her order book. "One last time," Louise muttered as the computer, yet again, took its time booting up. Four THE NEXT day Louise lay in bed waiting for Carl to leave the house. The ten minutes she forced herself to wait was absolute agony, obstinate seconds ticking by with staggering recalcitrance, defiant of Einstein and Hawking. But finally, eventually, the self-imposed purgatory ended and Louise threw back the quilt before clambering eagerly out of bed. Naked, she hurried along the corridor with indecent haste, keen to be in front of the computer. She mumbled and cursed as she waited for the machine to liven up, the mouse rolling over the mat when it did so. The folder was there, hidden away, but now Louise knew how to access it she was soon poring over the contents. That was the morning she discovered Wendy Taylor supposedly seducing her own son, luring him away from the wiles of a rival by flaunting her body in a red bra and knickers, the ensemble complemented by black stockings and fire-engine red high heels. "Fuck but that's so bloody dirty," hissed Louise as she watched Wendy squirt viscous liquid over the quilt cover. Louise herself had three stiff fingers fucking into her cunt as the young man in the scene crouched low over Wendy's back, his cock inside the woman doggy style, both of them grunting and moaning, flesh slapping as they rutted with delighted abandon. She groaned along with the pair when, finally, after thirty minutes of intense and very robust fucking, with Wendy on her back, legs wide, the young man shuddered and groaned and, wall-eyed with the intensity, pumped his mother full of semen. Louise gasped and muttered and shuddered, thighs shivering, muscles in spasm as she came. She stared at the screen, gaping wide-eyed while Wendy's fingers mixed jizm around her greasy vulva, the dialogue all about how she and her son would be together every night. "I'm going to come again," Louise mumbled, the model's words repeating themselves inside her head: You and me together every night. We can be together, darling, the two of us. All night. You can fuck your mummy with your big lovely cock. Oh, my darling son, my handsome boy fucking his mummy every night. Loving her like he should... The scene faded away and Louise calmed, her breathing slowly returning to its normal rate as her heart rate slowed. She swallowed heavily, gulping as she leaned forward in the office chair, a towel under her in case of mishaps. Louise trawled through files, opening photos depicting a common theme -- mother and son incest. There were one or two surprises, with one image depicting a more mature model, blonde of course, a lady of overgenerous proportions in the breast department, whose supposed grandson was fucking the crease between very large breasts. Then Louise decided to open a word document, curious as to what the written word could convey. She found a story, some thirteen hundred words with a Valentine's theme. Reading through the piece it suddenly dawned that the woman in the scene was her, which meant that Carl must be the author. The physical description fit, as did the circumstances of her separation and divorce, and Carl had even included her months of craziness during which she'd taken to promiscuity and drinking big time. What affected Louise the most was the first-person point-of-view, that and the admission he'd used her as a masturbatory fantasy figure. She sat and stared at the screen, her mind blank, eventually zoning back in to the present after more than half an hour of internal musing. When she snapped back to real time, Louise realised she hadn't exactly been in such a fugue as she'd first perceived. There was the glimmer of an idea forming, a grain of sand that would form the pearl. Five SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Louise was doing her best to mask her embarrassment as she browsed the available, and surprisingly vast, selection of sex toys with apparent unconcern. Having narrowed it down, she couldn't decide between the two. One was an oversized lump of moulded rubber, complete with a gnarled shaft, knots and knobs part of the design Louise assumed to be representative of thick veins as might be found on a living flesh-and blood example of the male sex organ. Although, in Louise's admittedly limited experience, she thought encountering a cock so roughly outlined, as well as such eye-watering size would be more than a little daunting. But she couldn't help but be drawn to it, fascinated by the thought of using it on her tender pussy while reading filth or watching one of Carl's video clips. The other example was more realistic in terms of size, or at least a size Louise was used to. There were less lumps and bumps but it wasn't completely smooth. The second design, although sheathed with some kind of malleable latex, also contained a cavity for two triple-A batteries, a feature that the -- thankfully female -- sales assistant was only too happy to point out in a loud, clear voice that had Louise's cheeks fiery-red with mortification. In the end, more in an effort to shut the girl up and leg it out of the shop and end the ordeal of the few other people in there knowing her personal business, Louise made the reckless decision to buy both items. The girl behind the counter jabbered on as she swiped the debit card and plucked the receipts from the till. Louise declined the carrier bag emblazoned with the tell-tale logo, opting instead to place her purchases into the Tesco carrier bag she'd had the forethought to bring with her. Excitement and anticipation tickled the pit of her stomach as Louise, feeling very naughty and more than a little aroused, hurried through the streets towards the multi-storey car park. She drove home, anxiety mounting, heat flaring between her legs, eager to use the vibrator against her clitoris while, maybe, if she could get herself worked up enough to try it, give the large knobbly dildo a try too. "Hi, Carl," Louise called from the front door -- just in case he was wanking away in the office chair oblivious to the time. "I'm back!" A reply came from upstairs and, since she couldn't be sure of the precise origins of her son's response, Louise decided to delay her ascent to the second floor, detouring through the kitchen to pour a vodka and coke. Thus prepared, with her dildos in the camouflage of the carrier bag, drink in the other hand, Louise climbed the stairs. * WHEN HIS mother returned home, Carl was in front of the computer. He'd lost track of the time, keen to get on and write some more of his Valentine's Day saga. He used the medium to exorcise his fantasies about his mother, combining what he saw in the videos with her physical features. "Shit," Carl muttered, the pointer on the screen going up to the top right-hand corner. When the box opened up in front of him, Carl chose the Save option, and then went through the slightly convoluted process of hiding his folder -- He really should get round to buying that flash-drive. The Taboo Folder Carl made doubly sure he'd hidden the folder before powering down the computer. The fright he'd had still hadn't completely worn off, but his mother's demeanour in the several days since the incident convinced him his secret was safe. The screen went blank and Carl slid the chair back on its casters, the seat swivelling beneath him as he turned towards the door. He met his mother on the landing just as she broached the top riser on the stairs. "Oh," she said, startled. "Hello, son." Carl saw the carrier bag. "What you got in the bag?" he asked, eyes going from the carrier to the glass in his mother's hand. "Just a couple of pairs of tights I picked up in Tesco." Carl registered his mother's blush. "Drinking at this time of day?" he continued, accepting the lie but puzzled by her behaviour. Louise gave a weak grin and a shrug. "It's Saturday. I thought I might -- uhm -- have a lie down on my bed with a book. I -- ah -- feel a little lazy; I'll probably have a little snooze, too." Carl blinked at his mother's unusual manner. There was something ... off about her. "Oh," he said, expression bemused. "Right. I'll keep the noise down, then." Louise threw her son another limpid smile and, clutching her bag, moved past him, leaving Carl on the landing gawping at the closing door of the bathroom. Carl stared at the bathroom door for a few seconds before shrugging. "All right," he mumbled as he went downstairs. * IN THE bathroom, Louise stood with her back to the door. From that position she could just see a section of her reflection in the mirror opposite the tub. How guilty did she look? The expression on her face must surely have triggered some suspicion in her son's mind. Louise's heart beat a staccato tattoo inside her chest. Her breath came in harsh gulps that she sucked down, eyes wide and staring. "Calm down," she muttered to herself. "What does he know? Nothing, absolutely nothing." Louise forced herself to think, reminding herself that Carl didn't possess X-ray vision, which meant he had no clue about the sex toys in her bag. What she had to be careful of was the way she acted around him. She had seen his look of puzzlement during the brief encounter on the landing. Louise knew she'd come across as evasive -- guilty as hell about something. "Calm down," Louise repeated, wondering if her fraught nerves could take the strain. If she was going to fall apart this easily her embryonic plans would fail. A few moments later, after peeing into the toilet bowl, washing her hands and then splashing cold water on her face, Louise felt remarkably improved. She then checked the modesty lock was engaged before she wrestled with the packaging of her new toys. Once she'd managed to free the dildos from the layers of cardboard and plastic she washed them both in lukewarm water. "Oh, God," muttered Louise as her fingers traced the protrusions on the shaft of the large rubber cock. All her worry evaporated in a moment when she considered the prospect of actually fucking that thing into her body. Excitement swelled inside Louise, the balloon expanding just below her sternum, heat flooding south. Her fingers squeezed the pliant latex of the big dildo, the girth of it causing a low moan of anticipation from her. Louise unlocked the door and peered out onto the landing. Seeing the coast was clear, she scuttled along to her room, clutching the carrier with its tell-take contents, closing the door firmly behind her. A momentary consideration came to her mind in that moment -- she could leave the door slightly ajar; Louise could lie on her bed and masturbate; she could simply abandon herself to her desires and the fates, and if Carl happened to hear her moans and groans, if he came to investigate— But she balked at the idea. The thought of her son walking in on her as she fucked her sodden pussy was a bit too much to contemplate. So the door remained closed while Louise stripped out of her clothes. However, the fantasy of Carl watching her -- and masturbating too, of course -- lingered. Perched on the bed next to Louise was her laptop. She had copied the contents of the folder from the big machine to the portable by means of an external hard drive that had been bought for the purpose of storing business information when the volume became too cumbersome for the laptop's limited memory. It had been a week since she had carried out the operation, and a vague notion she would have to examine any recent additions to the illicit collection sprung to mind. That was until the thought left her head, Louise's attention being captured by the tingles at her core and the by now well-known sight of the blonde model and her muscular son. The head of the vibrator buzzed against slick flesh. Louise's clitoris tingled and fizzed. On the screen, the blonde, her hair in disarray, rode her son's cock. Louise mumbled an obscenity, fascinated by the way the woman moved, with the roll of the other woman's hips and the manner in which her rounded buttocks rose and fell gripping her imagination. "Fuck him," she gurgled, eyes fixed and staring. "Fuck that cock, you lucky bitch. Fuck your son. Go on," urged Louise through gritted teeth as her passion flared. "Fuck him. Ride him. Oh, I wish it was me." In her mind, Louise drifted away. She was the blonde and, beneath her, moaning and grunting and murmuring words of desire as his hips moved up from the bed, was Carl. "You like mummy's pussy, don't you, baby?" Louise mewled. She slid one palm over her body, feeling the smooth texture of her skin from her breasts to her thigh, the dildo buzzing away. "My cunt is hot and wet and tight for you, isn't it, Carl?" Louise squinted at the laptop in time to witness the point in the clip where the son knelt at his mother's side, with the blonde on her back, legs wide while his stiff fingers worked her into a climactic lather. In Louise's opinion, during an earlier time when she had been capable of analysing the clip, the woman's orgasm was entirely uncontrived. The mature blonde may have been pretending to be the man's mother, but the pleasure she extracted from their coupling was entirely real. Seeing the model writhe and grunt and moan, her face twisted into that agonised grimace of undiluted lust, sent Louise into the abyss. "Carl," moaned Louise, her mind filled with images of her son. "Please, Carl, darling ... Please, just come in here and fuck me." She glanced at the door in the vain hope that her son would actually appear. "If you come in now, Carl, you can have me. You can do anything you want. I'll let you do it all." Her orgasm bubbled, and Louise recalled the lines in the Word document where Carl had described his jizm splashing over his mother's face. She juddered and moaned, the delight exploding while, at the same time, she used the vibrator on her sex and sucked and slobbered over the huge cock head of the larger dildo. "Spunk all over my face, Carl," Louise groaned. "Come on me and then let me suck it all out of you." Six SHE TAPPED at the keyboard, concentrating hard while simultaneously attempting to ignore the elephants' feet dancing in her stomach. Louise knew it was an insanely reckless thing to do. By taking the course of action she was intent upon she would be revealing her knowledge of the folder and its contents to Carl. But that had been her plan all along. At some time he would have to know, and perhaps this way -- Louise hoped fervently -- the events of Valentine's Day evening wouldn't come as a complete surprise. What she was unsure of was Carl's reaction. It was going to be a balancing act, a trip across the high-wire without a net. And if she fell... But Louise had always been a determined character. She had a plan and she would stick to it. Now she had embraced the concept of incest she grasped it with enthusiasm. Just as long as the flower she hoped would bloom wasn't in fact a nettle. She sighed and shivered, a goose walking over her grave. "Bollocks," muttered Louise and, after a quick scan of the few words already written, continued: with: I found the folder by accident. I'm entirely innocent. It wasn't a sneaky act because the thing was there in plain view when I turned on the computer I share with my son. At first, understandably, since I've never been exposed to the like before, I was shocked and upset. You might describe my mood as appalled. I mean ... Incest? I knew the meaning of the word, of course I did, but to read it there on the screen shocked me to my core. What filth like that doing on our computer? I can't explain why, but I looked, and what I found that first time -- and there were to be many other occasions, oh yes indeed, but what I found that first time held me enthralled. It was car-crash television. I didn't want to see it, but I was compelled nevertheless. The blonde woman and that young man, the way she so casually offered herself to him. And he was supposed to be her son! I watched her reveal her body, and quite a decent body she has, too. She has a fantastic figure for a lady of her years, even if her boobs are done. Yes, there's some grudging appreciation for her physical appeal, but the way she flaunted it to the man on the bed... Well, she's a confident one, but I suppose you'd need to be if you're going to fuck on film. After witnessing a few more minutes of that filth I couldn't take any more. To think that my lovely son could get turned on by that disgusted me. It was an outrage. Yet, no matter how hot my anger was, no matter how deeply offended and disgusted, I couldn't bring myself to confront him about it. It took some thought but, finally, after a very uneasy night, I reconciled myself to the fact that Carl is a grown man, an adult in his own right. If that was his 'thing', well, what could I do? But then I found myself drawn back to the computer. I couldn't keep away and went back time after time, masturbating to the video clips. I rubbed my pussy and came, eventually accepting that I too had a dark, depraved side to me that simply adored the taboo. Then I found the story of the Valentine's evening... And it's a scene I can envision and expand upon. I see myself making the preparations. I'm nervous, so very nervous. My legs shake and my hands tremble. I take an age to bathe, shaving my legs and armpits and, of course, take special care to present my vulva to my son in a tidy fashion. I dress the way I would if our dinner was going to feature in one of the video clips: brief denim mini, clinging tee-shirt and high heels. I feel such a slut, no knickers below, and no bra on top, but I know my son appreciates my slender figure because he's admitted to it in his writing. Besides, that's the outfit he had me in his story, so why not recreate his vision? I set the table -- red cloth, naturally; glittery love-hearts; a red rose in a vase and candles. When I'm ready, with steaks in the fridge and the veggies peeled and in water, the nerves really kick in. I have no idea if my son will be complicit in what is going to be an act that impacts both our lives hugely. It might be too much for him to deal with. That thought tells me I'm going to have to be the dominant one. I'll have to steer the situation. I imagine Carl will be stunned. He's bound to be. Going from incest fantasies in secret to having one's own mother in full-on seduction mode is going to be a huge mountain to climb. But I'm set on trying. I've thought about it and analysed it and I just have to try. I've been without a man for a long time, and it isn't a simple matter -- not for me anyway -- of going out and picking up a casual fuck. Not like it was when I was drinking, although those days are mercifully over. It isn't like scratching the itch. Doing that would only be a temporary respite. I want more. I want love and affection, hugs and kisses and tenderness -- as well as a lovely hard cock to make me scream. Who else better than my son to fulfil my needs? We already love each other; I know he isn't sickened by the idea of mother-son relationships. In fact his collection is heavily weighted that way. There are only a handful of daddy-daughter examples of the genre in the folder, and it looks to me like Carl is already pre-disposed towards incest with his mother. It could be he's actually considered making an advance but is naturally reticent to do so. So, with all that in mind I know it's up to me. I sit and drink white wine and wait for him to come home from work. We'll have to wait and see how it all turns out. P.S. Carl, if you read this before Valentine's Day, when you come home from work I'm going to be waiting for you. I want you to know I want us to do this. If you read this beforehand and are too embarrassed or shocked to say anything, don't worry, darling. I understand what it is you get from seeing those men and women in the video clips. I feel it too, baby. When you get home, mummy will be wearing that skirt and tee-shirt and those shoes. And remember, Carl, she WANTS this. Your mother wants you to touch her between her legs. She wants you to feel her wetness, that desire for YOU! You wrote it down, darling. Now we can make it real. I love you. * THE DOCUMENT stayed on Louise's laptop for days. She vacillated, one moment steeling her resolve, the next all her determination crumbled. In the end, less than a week before Valentine's Day, after three large vodkas with Coke on the bounce, she hurried to the main computer and transferred the document to the folder. Then it was four days and nights of agonised waiting. Seven IT HAD been a day of distraction for Carl. He'd been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that even the simple task of adjusting the tension on a chain had almost been beyond him. Even his boss, an easy-going motorcycle mechanic named Arnie, had been goaded into curt rebuke after a near-miss with a tyre change. "For fuck's sake, Carl," Arnie had gasped, exasperated by the uncharacteristic series of errors. "What the fuck's wrong? You got a bit of fluff on a promise for tonight?" Carl had apologised and promised to buck his ideas up, telling Arnie he didn't feel too good, and no, he didn't have a girl on a Valentine's date. He could hardly seek advice from the older man for what was on his mind. How could he? Not when the cause of Carl's distraction was his own mother. At first, when he noticed the document sitting there on the desktop, Carl had been surprised. It was labelled up with his name, and so he'd opened it. And from that moment his life was altered. He read the first few paragraphs, his mind at first refusing to accept what was right there. Then he read on, his jaw hanging slack, emotions raging through him in a dizzying kaleidoscope. Carl couldn't describe how he felt -- was he aghast, appalled, embarrassed, or by the time he'd read and reread the postscript several times through, aroused? The thought that his mother knew -- that she fucking knew about the incest folder caused Carl to utter a long, low, wounded groan. He slumped forward, elbows on the desk, head in his hands as he imagined his mother's disappointment at the awful discovery. "Oh shit. Oh, no. Oh, fucking HELL!" gasped Carl. "No. No-no-no-no." When he was able, Carl read through the document again. This time he took his time, trying to soak up his mother's emotions at the time of writing, recognising a kindred spirit when he came across the paragraph describing how his mother had been compelled to revisit the computer time after time. Her phrasing of, I rubbed my pussy and came, eventually accepting that I too had a dark, depraved side to me that simply adored the taboo told him his mother understood. Another analysis of the postscript cemented the impression. Carl considered a course of action where he simply talked to his mother. After all, he knew she knew -- why not grow a pair and confront the issue head-on? He thought about it, in fact it seemed like nothing else could occupy his attention for more than a few seconds at a time, his mind worked and worried at the concept constantly, his span of concentration reduced so much he became an actual danger. Work was a nightmare, riding his motorbike was close to suicidal, and even crossing the road became a near death experience. As for his mother, when he was in her company he could barely string a coherent sentence together. And she must have known what his problem was -- how could she not? But did she relieve the situation or attempt to alleviate his suffering? No, she just went about her business as usual. And all the time he knew she knew! He would go fucking mental with the strain. Valentine's Day dawned, a crisp and clear mid-February morning when the sun eventually rose. Carl rode to work, leaving the house before his mother gave any indication she was awake. The morning passed slowly, the afternoon dragged. Yet, paradoxically, when the clock finally hauled itself to show half-past-five, Carl blinked and wondered where the time had gone. But that was the state he was in. "See you on Monday," Arnie had said when Carl donned his helmet on the way out of the back door to the workshop. "Get your head out of your arse this weekend," the man added, grinning and winking to take the sting out of his words. Carl rode the two miles home, considering just what awaited him. "It can't be real," he muttered, the words muffled to his own ears inside the helmet, sounding as if they came from the centre of his head instead of his mouth. "It won't happen. It isn't possible. It's a trick." The last thought triggered the response, doubt uncoiled inside him. It was all an elaborate scheme. His mother wouldn't be waiting for him at that moment with the table all set. She wouldn't be wearing a tight-fitting tee-shirt and denim mini. There would be no high heels. Instead, regardless of Carl being able to conjure up a reason why anyone would concoct such a plan for his humiliation, he imagined all manner of histrionics. He would see disappointment in his mother's expression. He would feel the mortification, the absolute shame of being branded a pervert by the person who mattered most to him in the world. Just four houses away from his front door, Carl turned the bike in the street, winding it open until he'd put some distance between himself and the scene he was sure awaited his return. He needed time to think. Carl needed space to consider what he would do when the shit hit the fan. One thing was certain; he wouldn't be able to look his mother in the eyes ever again. Not now she knew his sordid secret. * OH, GOD, the nerves were worse than she imagined. It was awful, all through the preparations she swung between moments of high euphoria and crashing uncertainty. It was wrong. It was right. Louise couldn't make up her mind from one moment to the next. The table had been covered with the red cloth hours before. The romantic touches added before she got ready herself. Louise had bathed and then barely been able to manage the razor on her legs and underarms, the task of tidying her pubic bush into a precise love-heart had been abandoned when her shaking hands had rendered it an impossible feat. The unfamiliarly depilated state of her vulva felt cool and vulnerable as Louise sat at the kitchen table, the brief denim skirt high on her thighs, its brevity as short as her confidence. She couldn't help but sip red wine, surprising herself by downing an entire bottle, a third of her stock but which left her unusually unaffected. For Louise, although she couldn't know it, the day dragged along in the same way it did for her son. She thought the half-hour would never arrive, Carl's usual knock-off time of five-thirty. But then it arrived and she waited some more, and, like Carl, she wondered where the time had gone. The day had passed in a fugue. The Taboo Folder He was due home no later than quarter-to-six, which also came and went. When both hands on the huge Ikea clock showed a single vertical line Louise began to worry. It was February, cold and dark, and he was on a motorbike. She chewed her bottom lip, anxious for her son's safety, but stopped when she realised she would have to carry out repairs with more of the red lipstick she'd chosen for the effect. Another fifteen minutes and the lipstick had gone. Louise's guts were a churning mess. "Carl," she mumbled, picking up her mobile phone. The time had come to call. Why hadn't he phoned her? The device took several seconds to do its thing, signals to masts to Carl's own mobile. Then Louise heard the tone that told her the contact had been made, that Carl's phone would be ringing. The purr sounded nine times and then rang out, the answerphone option kicking in. Her son's voice: Yeah, hi, this is Carl. I can't answer the phone right now. Leave a message, and if I like you I'll call back. Louise considered calling Arnie, but supposed that Carl must have left work at the normal time or surely he would have called. Her eyes went to the clock -- twenty-past six. Then she heard the grate of a key in the mortise at the front door. "Mum?" Louise heard. "I'm home." Epilogue HIS MOTHER'S clothes lay in a pile on the kitchen tiles. It was a very small pile; insubstantial given the skirt had been little more than a belt, the tee-shirt flimsy. Carl grinned across the table at her, noticing the candlelight reflected in her eyes -- or was that wickedness glinting there? "How do you feel, darling?" Louise asked, her tone light, head tilted to one side. She brushed a hand against her cheek, touching the place where his jizm had spattered in a hot rush of liquid, a thick glistening rope of the stuff that had flicked out of his cock and over her skin at her own breathless exhortation. "You made such a mess earlier." Carl still felt shy and awkward, the reality of the situation slowly sinking in. It would take time, like moisture permeating through a dense brick, but Carl would come to believe, fully trust that this whole scene wasn't some surreal and very vivid dream. "I'm still not sure, mum," he replied, quickly adding, "I don't mean I'm not sure about ... about..." Carl gestured with a sweep of one arm. "...This being real," he finished. Louise nodded. "It's strange, isn't it? It's like we know each other but are somehow strangers." "That's exactly how it is for us, mum," responded Carl. "I mean, we know who we are, but not like this." "More wine, darling?" Louise asked, rising from her seat at the table. She noticed her son's throat work as he blinked, eyes moving over her nakedness. "It'll help relax you," she purred, pouring the dark liquid. Carl reached for the glass and took a deep draught. When he replaced the long-stemmed goblet he saw his mother still standing close to his side. "Oh, mum," groaned Carl, his cock thick and hard in his jeans. "It was just like the story. I -- uh -- I can't believe you did that. You actually sucked..." He hesitated, ridiculously reluctant to vocalise the act his mother had performed. Louise chuckled and took a step closer to her son. Her heels clicked on the tiles. "Just like you described, darling. Now," she added with a purr. "Do you want dinner now, or shall we go up to my bed?" Carl gulped again, the suggestion and all the promise it contained twisting on a visceral level. "Duh-do you really want to, mum?" "Dinner or bed?" Louise quipped. She leaned in and tilted her son's face with a forefinger beneath his chin. "Carl," she breathed, her stare locked on his face. "Look at me. I'm naked. You've already come on my face. I sucked the spunk off your cock, babe." Louise's eyes widened as her eyebrows arched. "Trust me, darling; I want it all. I want to feel you inside me. I want you to make tender love to me. After all," Louise grinned and winked, "it is Valentine's Day." "You really mean it, mum?" Air hissed through Louise's nostrils. She nodded, her face closing in. "I mean it, Carl. Everything. From now on I'm yours. You can do things to me. You can do all the things you've seen in those clips. I'll be the naughty mother who offers herself to her son. Would you like that, Carl?" she breathed. And in the second before she kissed her son's mouth, Louise added, "Don't you want to fuck mummy's wet cunt?" The candles smoked dark and greasy after Louise blew them out. The steaks stayed in the fridge, the vegetables went uncooked. But the naked woman led her son upstairs by his hand.