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.