"Sex Between Mother and Son" from "A History of Human Customs and Morals"

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-23

As the title suggests, this is a novel with a discussion element. When the troubling word "incest" appears repeatedly, we are forced to have a clear understanding of it.
Remember, it's "clear understanding," not "sober understanding," because neither morality nor law can forcibly prevent it. We can only "clearly" know what it's all about, not "soberly" despise it morally—after all, the taboo against incest is ultimately not a product of morality, and who can be certain that close relatives won't experience a strong attraction?
I will begin to tell this lengthy story, using the changing ages of the mother and child to reflect the course of events.
"Sex Everywhere"
More than twenty years ago, when Mom and Dad signed a contract, they officially became a legal couple.
In other words, both parties gained the legally recognized right to engage in sexual intercourse. Mom and Dad could have sex "protected by law" and have children. Conversely, sexual intercourse between men and women that doesn't complete this process is "self-destructive."
That year, my mother was about 25 years old. A year later, I came into the world (ironically, we are still very curious about the specific process of our arrival, but that is not something we can know).
Ten months of pregnancy, one day of childbirth—I lived in my mother's warm belly for ten months, during which time the boy's genitals developed and tightly embraced my mother's tender uterus; it was truly a happy and blissful time. Finally, amidst my mother's screams and struggles, I left this comfortable paradise, crossed the extremely swollen vagina, and was born with a cry.
If we consider the contact between male and female genitals as sexual intercourse, then during the time of the son's birth, sexual intercourse had already occurred with the mother.
But neither my father nor my mother thought that way. They only knew that they had the continuation of life, but never considered that in the process of this new life's emergence, the mother actually had sexual contact with "two" men, not "one."
The arrival of the new life brought joy and trouble. The young father had to work twice as hard to feed his wife and son, while my mother stayed at home with me, the infant.
I often cried loudly because of hunger, so my mother would take off her top to breastfeed me. My mother's breasts were at their largest, soft and firm. She gently held me in her arms, bringing her large, white breasts to my lips. I eagerly took her swollen nipple into my mouth, greedily sucking the sweet milk, the ultimate delicacy for a baby, fresh and delicious.
My mother smiled at me like a Virgin Mary, looking at her crying son in her arms, gently stroking me. I also reached out my delicate little hands to touch those beautiful mounds of flesh. We always have such respect, praise, appreciation, and longing for women's breasts, because they are a treasure bestowed upon women by the Creator to nurture humankind, so great and so alluring. A man's liking to look at a woman's breasts may not be considered impolite, but rather an uncontrollable urge to give birth and a yearning for motherhood.
This was a wonderful time no less than being in the womb; I could enjoy my mother's sweet, full breasts to my heart's content. They were mine, and no one could take them away. Of course, my father and mother would also do what they wanted at night. Perhaps my father also longed for my mother's breasts. When they were together, my father would always take my mother's nipple into his mouth and suckle with all his might.
Often, I'd see mothers scolding fathers, "Don't be so crazy! You've drunk all the milk, what will our son do?"
Fathers would laugh and say, "It's okay, I'll only drink what our son leaves behind."
Mothers, blushing, would hug me shyly and say, "We won't give it to him, right, son? Mommy's milk is only for you."
Fathers would then burst into laughter.
This is an important detail that shouldn't be easily overlooked: both fathers and young sons are possessive of their mothers' breasts. This can be seen in the father kissing the mother's breasts during intercourse and the baby's longing for the mother's nipple.
What does this possessiveness of the father and son towards the mother's breasts signify? For the son, is it merely a need for breastfeeding or a male's need for a woman? I don't know, and I don't want to delve deeper, otherwise those extreme "moralists" would make me a pariah.
At that time, I was a baby boy, and my mother put me in my own little bed. But I would always cry loudly at night because I was hungry or wet the bed, disturbing their peace. My mother had no choice but to let the three of us sleep together, and I lay between my father and mother.
But that wasn't enough for me, so I would often poop and pee at the same time. Since I was often nestled in my mother's arms, my poop would end up on my father. "What a naughty little thing!" my father would grumble angrily, and he'd have to wash my clothes, which were covered in my excrement. Then I could snuggle in my mother's soft arms and fall asleep contentedly in her gentle, maternal embrace.
Because my father anticipated the unpredictable onslaught of my poop, he kept his distance from my bottom and from my mother as well; I finally had the unique ability of a baby to enjoy my mother's love all to myself.
During this time, my arrival not only reduced my parents' sex life, but my mother's delicate postpartum body also meant she had to spend long periods at home with me.
My father was very busy with work to support three people, so my mother's hormones were likely to take effect when he wasn't home. A woman's breasts are her erogenous zones. When my mother breastfed me,
my little mouth diligently sucked on every part of her nipple—a stark
contrast to my father's sucking, where men would never suckle so carefully and for so long. I think at that moment, my mother was not only breastfeeding but also enjoying the sexual stimulation from her breasts that her child provided. It was a very subtle feeling, known only to the mother herself, a blissful experience of this "hidden and subtle"
sexual pleasure while feeding her child.
Time flies, and six years have passed in the blink of an eye. I am six years old, and my mother is 32. As mentioned above, my mother has always treated me like a baby in her arms, showering me with love and care. My father, due to work, had been away from home for many years, much like when I was a baby. I am certain that my mother's sexual needs were very strong at that time, and I can give a few examples to prove it.
1. Although children think of six as "adults," I still needed my mother to bathe me; otherwise, I would never get the parts that needed cleaning properly.
My mother placed me in a wooden tub, lathered me with soap, and also cleaned my genitals. A boy's genitals are, after all, male physiological characteristics. When a mother touches them, even if the son shows no discomfort, does the mother necessarily feel nothing?
I still remember my mother wiping my entire body with a towel, always gazing at me with infinite tenderness. It's well-known that boys like to play with their genitals; Freud called this "the earliest form of sexual desire."
When I touched my genitals, my mother would scold me repeatedly, "Don't play with your little penis! You'll get sick!"
Why could my mother touch my genitals so casually, yet be so averse to me playing with my "little penis"?
I think this is very likely because the mother wants to obtain sexual satisfaction from her son without him being aware of "sex"—this way, she can prevent him from "going astray" and also make herself feel at ease—this deep-seated mentality is hard to understand.
2. My mother and I often played together in bed during the day. I can't remember exactly what we played, but one thing I do remember is that my mother liked to play with me while affectionately kissing my cheeks and little mouth.
My mother hugged me and said affectionately, "Little rascal, come here, give Mommy a kiss."
I immediately pouted and kissed her cheek. She said again, "My sweet baby, give me a kiss."
Mother and son happily kissed.
At this time, I would always ride on my mother's belly, excitedly shouting, "Giddy up! Horse, run faster!"
My mother laughed and said, "Little one, you're making it hard for Mommy to breathe!"
My mother didn't seem to care about kissing me; in her eyes, I was just an ignorant child, and kissing was a loving expression between mother and son. But who can prove that when my mother kissed me passionately, there wasn't a sexual expression involved?
I am a child, and also a male; kissing can have many meanings, expressing affection while also providing sexual satisfaction. Regarding
the "emergence of the Oedipus complex,"
I don't remember the specific details at the time; I will only describe the process and the state of affairs in a specific environment.
I think the "Oedipus complex" probably emerged during my childhood, during moments of solitude and close contact with my mother. This complex, once it takes hold, is hard to shake off because the emotions involved are so deep and complex, it's hard to say whether it's familial love, attachment, romantic love, or sexual desire.
Six years later, I was 12 years old, and my male hormones were starting to develop. So at this time, perhaps while still feeling attached to my mother, I also experienced the attraction and sexual urges a man might have towards a mature woman.
My mother was 38 years old then, and in my eyes, she was incredibly sexy and beautiful: she wasn't tall, about 157 cm, and had a slightly plump figure with a dignified and clear face; her eyes were large and gentle, and her lips were full; her earlobes had always been my favorite part, small, delicate, and incredibly tender; her breasts were no longer as large as they used to be, her waist was gradually becoming fuller, and her thighs and hips were quite plump.
You can see from this description that I had already learned to carefully observe my mother's body, which was fundamentally different from my childhood: a child only knows that their mother is kind and gentle, while a teenager, building on that foundation, has a vague understanding of "sex."
For a while, I could still sleep with my mother. In my sleep, I still clung tightly to my mother's neck like a child. This seemed to make her very proud; she often happily told her friends about me, "My precious son is so close to me, he always clings to me tightly at night."
My mother believed that I was still the same as when I was first born, simply an attachment to the mother's body. I felt the same way then, without any discomfort.
But one time, I suddenly felt that my mother beside me was also a woman, a thought that surprised and excited me greatly. Involuntarily, I reached out and hugged my mother, gently stroking her breasts. This unconscious act made me so nervous I could hardly breathe, yet I was incredibly happy. I pressed my body against my mother's back, resting my head on her shoulder, feeling warm and gentle, and quickly fell asleep.
In her sleep, my mother gently pushed my hands away, murmuring, "This child never grows up, still wants to nurse!"
This behavior of mine was a mixture of sexual attraction and the attachment of a child.
Another time, I woke up hazily in the early morning and stroked my mother beside me. It was early autumn. My mother was wearing a vest; her skin was delicate, and her fair, full arms were clearly visible, with a wisp of downy hair peeking out from under her armpits. Her face was delicate and full, and her sexy neck and chest were clearly visible.
I was overjoyed and hugged my mother tightly, stroking her plump, smooth arms, then holding her neck and resting my head on her chin. In her sleep, my mother unconsciously reached out to stroke me, wrapping her arms around my waist, bringing us very close together face to face. Her heavy breathing in her sleep excited me greatly, and I almost wanted to kiss her lips like a child.
I turned to my side, placing one leg on my mother's well-defined hip, a possessive desire for her body filling my brain, and my penis quickly became erect, brushing against her lower abdomen several times. I pressed my face even closer to my mother, my forehead against her lips, and my mother unconsciously hugged me even tighter, pressing her full cheek against mine.
I was so happy I almost shouted. I could estimate that my lips were only a few centimeters away from my mother's, and I really wanted to kiss her soft lips. But at that moment, I didn't dare. I could only hug my mother's soft waist and caress her small earlobe.
I didn't dare to kiss my mother like I used to, which shows that while I had developed a sense of sensuality, I also developed self-restraint. I remember that in the year or two before I turned 12, I would forcefully pull on my mother's nightgown in my sleep, trying to grab her breasts; but now I didn't dare to kiss her.
I think this is related to my mother gradually becoming aware of my sexual maturity. She must have realized that her son had developed at least some sexual feelings and was no longer the ignorant child he once was. So my mother would consciously keep her distance from me in certain aspects, making me feel her rejection of my "expressions of affection," which explains my timidity.
There is another point that I almost overlooked. If we assume that this incident did not occur at all, it might have greatly reduced my desire to possess my mother.
I still clearly remember when I was just a few years old, I accidentally witnessed my parents playing around in bed. It seemed like a joke, but it also felt sexually stimulating. To be precise, because my parents neglected me and engaged in something resembling sexual intercourse in front of me, I developed a desire to have my mother's body like my father's. The long periods of solitude between mother and son only reinforced this desire.
We shouldn't underestimate children's judgment; they can understand the world with keen eyes and rich emotions, which is far superior to explaining things with words—because many things and many scenes cannot be expressed in writing. The
truths that children understand in their hearts, truths they cannot clearly articulate, may never be discovered by us adults.
In general, during this period, my mother rejected my attempts at intimacy (or perhaps "teasing" would be more accurate). I felt a mix of fear, excitement, and longing. Finally, I realized that I was no longer a child. If I tried to achieve sexual satisfaction through the same way a child expresses affection to their mother,
I was mistaken. My mother certainly felt the sexual satisfaction I gave her (this
could be seen in her reaction to my caresses in her sleep), but she wouldn't willingly accept my blatant sexual advances.
In the above text, my frequent use of the word "sex" is solely based on my feelings and judgments, and may not be entirely appropriate, but it is supported by ample theory and examples.
Moralists often vehemently criticize views like mine, accusing them of being "filthy, vulgar, and desecrating the pure bond between mother and child." But "sex" does not preclude our sincere "emotions." There are many ways to express emotions, and "sex" is one of them.
Moreover, "sex" and "emotion" are often inseparable:
1. We can discuss the illicit affair between Ximen Qing and Pan Jinlian in *Water Margin*.
Could a man and woman so infatuated with sex truly feel no love at all? Pan Jinlian's marriage to Wu Dalang was unhappy, so she first pinned her hopes on Wu Song, but after being rejected, she accepted Ximen Qing's advances. Of course, such extramarital affairs are condemned by traditional morality, but who can deny the existence of "love" in the pursuit of a man she likes?
2. Furthermore, for example, in *The Bridges of Madison County*, the female protagonist falls in love with the male reporter, and after they fall in love, they have sex. Can you separate "love" from "sex" here?
Considering these reasons, I summarize the above two parts as "ubiquitous sex" and the resulting "Oedipus complex." Below, I will further describe and analyze the changes in the family's marital breakdown and the emotional bond between mother and son. "
Using sex" as revenge; changes in the emotional bond between mother and son.
Let's consider a six-year period. Six years later, I am 18, and my mother is 44.
I have the composure of an adult and richer emotions, while my mother has lost some of her youthful beauty, her face bearing the marks of time, but she has gained a mature charm and an elegant demeanor.
In my eyes, my mother is still so beautiful; no woman has ever impressed me like her: she is intelligent, humorous, hardworking, kind, and dignified. In other words, my love for my mother has only increased, but this "love" is different from before: undeniably, I still have some attachment to her, and a lot of sexual attraction, but more importantly, I am deeply captivated by the extraordinary charm of a mature woman.
This "love" has undergone a huge change, a result of gradual growth. I no longer openly "professed my love" to my mother as before, but expressed my feelings very subtly; at the same time, I became bolder and no longer afraid of my mother's rejection.
Then something very unpleasant happened: my father had an affair (note that from this point on, we changed our address for our fathers from "Dad" to "Father." This change in address signifies that the boy had become a man, no longer having the same attachment to his father, and perhaps even harboring some hostility).
I remember my mother once telling me that marriages in her generation were generally not very happy. Due to the Cultural Revolution, many people grew up in the countryside and were unable to return to the city immediately. Their urgent need for sex led many of them to hastily marry.
We can reasonably conclude that marriages based solely on sexual needs are unlikely to have an emotional foundation—which is why we often see couples in their forties getting divorced or having extramarital affairs. This example verifies the relationship between "sex" and "emotion" mentioned earlier; forcibly separating the two will yield no results. Similarly, I do not intend to endorse Plato's concept of love as "fully armored," nor can I accept that my previous sexual advances would have a positive effect.
So what exactly is "emotion"? It's a question that could be debated for a thousand years without finding an answer, and I don't want to elaborate.
What I find amusing is that those who engage in extramarital affairs don't necessarily derive much satisfaction from their infidelity. Perhaps initially there's the sexual thrill of tasting forbidden fruit and the excitement of finding "new love," but as time goes on, they discover that the other person isn't much different from their spouse. Thus, we see this cycle: marriage—extramarital affair—divorce—remarriage—another
extramarital affair—another divorce… until finally everyone gets fed up and decides to stop doing such a laborious and unprofitable thing.
Isn't that laughable? Marriage is not something to be taken lightly, and once you have a wife (or husband), you should fulfill your responsibilities and not easily commit adultery. Conversely, those who enjoy philandering should not get married, lest everyone be unhappy.
I've seen the woman rumored to have had an affair with my father; she was a slutty, overweight nouveau riche, utterly repulsive. Unfortunately, perhaps that's just my father's taste; or perhaps he felt he couldn't compare to my elegant and proud mother, and voluntarily gave her up—so I repeatedly remind you: marriage is not something to be taken lightly.
My mother argued with my father about this for a long time; her anger and destructive power were so great that even I, an observer who "didn't participate in the fight," was deeply affected. I saw my mother in so much pain that she banged her head on the ground, and I immediately went to comfort her.
My mother leaned sadly on my shoulder, tears streaming down her face, soaking my sleeve. As I comforted my grieving mother, I cursed my father's despicable behavior and that damned slut in my heart.
I love my mother very much, so I absolutely will not allow anyone to hurt her. Although, according to Freud, the father is the son's rival in the competition for the mother's affections, I still wouldn't allow him to be unfaithful to my mother in the slightest (originally, the son should have been happy at this time, as he could have the opportunity to have his mother exclusively).
This emotion, which even I find perplexing, is perfectly normal for a mother and son with a deep bond, but it also resembles the complex feelings of a love triangle.
While comforting my mother, who was sobbing in my arms, I experienced a bittersweet feeling, while inwardly plotting a way to get revenge on my father with immense anger. I took advantage of an opportunity when my parents were not home and raped that slut (see my humble work, "The Mature Woman Who Came to My Door").
No one knew that after this act of revenge, that slut never dared to flirt with my father again and obediently left. This was the first time I used sex to get revenge on my father. Later, my mother seemed to know about it and mentioned it to me casually, but I was so frightened by her furious reaction that she dared not ask any further questions.
On one occasion, while comforting my mother, I expressed my love to her, kissing her passionately and holding her tightly in my arms.
Mom understood what I meant and pushed me away, saying, "Don't do anything rash! Are you going to bully me too?"
Looking at the glistening tears on Mom's beautiful face, I almost cried myself: "Mom, I love you! Why would you rather be bullied by him than accept me?"
Mom angrily slapped me, and seeing my reddened face, she immediately stroked me with heartache and sighed, "What do you want me to do?"
I hugged Mom again, expressing my apology with deep kisses and caresses. Mom didn't object anymore, obediently letting me comfort her, leaning against me and sobbing. She nestled gently in my arms, and from her helpless and loving eyes, I could see she was waiting for me to win her over. This time, Mom accepted me, but I couldn't bear to have her now. I sighed again, offered a few words of comfort, and stopped forcing her. I understood that Mom hadn't truly accepted me; she was using sex to retaliate against Father, and I had no interest in that kind of sex.
It's strange, but when our lovers betray us, our first reaction is always to retaliate with sex—just as when we see our lover having sex with someone else, we feel utterly hopeless.
Sex is selfish, love is selfish.
When what is private is not respected, people will use the same methods to compensate themselves and retaliate against others. Under pressure from my
mother
and me, my father was forced to back down and break off contact with that woman. My mother and father stopped their fighting, and everything returned to normal. But in my opinion, the rift between my mother and father was irreparable; they could never return to their former intimacy. I was very worried about their superficial harmony; I felt a suffocating atmosphere in the house, but I was powerless to do anything about it.
Time flew by, and four years passed in the blink of an eye. I was 22, and my mother was 48. My infatuation with my mother grew stronger every day, never wavering. During this time, my mother seemed to have suddenly regained the charm of a young woman, becoming radiant. She was still rather plump, but she had completely retained the vibrant spirit of youth.
I was pleasantly surprised by the changes in my mother and proud of her youthful spirit.
My father, however, felt increasingly distant from my mother and felt unwelcome, so he focused his attention on work and socializing. When I wasn't home, my mother was very lonely; there was no one to talk to. As I grew more independent, it seemed there was even less to talk about between us.
This was something I didn't want to see, and I resolved to try my best to understand my mother and care for this lonely, charming, and beautiful woman. I've started referring to my mother as "a woman" here because our relationship is more like that of adult friends than a simple, childish mother and son.
I often initiated conversations with my mother, freely expressing my thoughts and knowledge in unrestrained, expansive discussions. My mother was delighted by my maturity and captivated by my increasingly refined demeanor, for I could glean everything from the tender gaze she gave me.
In our free time, we would do chores together while enjoying heartfelt conversations; the harmonious atmosphere was indescribable, a charm that would leave today's pretentious men and women, who constantly preach "charm" but lack any real substance, far behind. What is charm? It is a noble and elegant state of mind, a tacit and harmonious partnership, something that cannot be learned without genuine communication and rich inner understanding; at best, it's merely a superficial imitation, all show and no substance.
I happily savored all of this, as if returning to the innocent joy of childhood. My mother was also very intelligent; she not only listened but also offered guidance. This made me even more captivated—of all the girls and women I'd ever dated, none understood me or offered such guidance as my mother. Her charm was unparalleled! What reason did I have not to love such a woman?
Gradually, my mother developed a kind of spiritual dependence on me. I often noticed her lowering her head slightly, gazing at me with dreamy eyes, as if I were her entire life. A sweet smile played on her face, barely perceptible, like the shy tenderness of a young girl in first love facing her lover.
At these moments, I would deliberately stop, smiling, and say, "Mom, what are you laughing at?"
My mother would then realize she was completely entranced, blushing and quickly saying, "Nothing! Please continue."
I would glance at her slyly, revealing a knowing and warm smile, and continue sharing my views and doing my chores. My mother would involuntarily stop again, casting her affectionate glances at me once more, her bright eyes seemingly glued to me.
This was a woman's reliance on and infatuation with a man; I can express the situation at this moment so clearly.
Because of my care, thoughtfulness, and growing intellectual maturity, my mother finally experienced a completely new kind of enjoyment.
How intoxicating this was compared to my past foolish courtship! My meticulous care in daily life and my continuous spiritual growth made my mother feel that she had found a man's protection and care, which is the most important pillar for a woman. Deep in their minds, every woman has a dependence on men and a desire to be protected and valued. When she feels that the man beside her treats her this way, she will give him sincere gratitude and even all her love.
My care for my mother doesn't make me expect anything in return; I just want to savor this fleeting, beautiful life—but to be honest, if my mother truly gave me everything, I would be very excited to accept her love now.
Once, I was standing on the balcony, lost in thought, when my mother appeared before me. She hugged me from behind, rested her head on my shoulder, and gently asked with a smile, "Silly boy, what are you daydreaming about?"
I felt incredibly tender, and my breathing quickened involuntarily. I took my mother's hands and kissed them deeply, then turned and wrapped my arms around her soft shoulders, pulling her close. My body was hot; such intimate contact had become rare.
I kissed her cheeks and earlobes, and she flinched slightly, giggling and playfully scolding me, "Still so naughty!"
Looking at her shy expression, a strong desire surged through me, making me almost unable to control myself. I wanted to become one with her right then and there! Because I loved her so much! I pulled her closer with my arms, my hand inadvertently brushing against her armpits, feeling her full, soft breasts.
My mother didn't move, continuing to talk to me gently. I released her, took her hands in mine, and gazed at her again.
My mother's smile is the most beautiful flower in the world. Lost in this pure and beautiful moment, I didn't want to disturb it, so I tried hard to suppress my rising desire. My mother gently asked, "What are you looking at? Silly boy? Don't you recognize your mother?"
I said earnestly, "Mom, you're so beautiful! If you went for beauty treatments and health maintenance regularly, no one would guess you're almost 50."
My mother happily chided me, "You naughty boy, such a sweet tongue! When did you learn to fawn over your mother?"
I was telling the truth, and my mother laughed heartily.
Although I didn't take the initiative, I was certain of my mother's affection for me. I often stared at my mother's beautiful and captivating figure, admiring her repeatedly. She attracted me like a goddess; and she always looked at me with tender affection, her ever-present glances touching my heart. I never imagined that one day I would actually win my mother's love; something I never even dreamed of before. Our mutual care, understanding, and tacit agreement laid a solid foundation for us. All that was needed was the alluring and exciting stimulant of sex to ignite it, and then everything fell into place.
My gaze towards my mother grew increasingly intense. She seemed to sense it, appearing somewhat uncomfortable, yet also quite satisfied. Perhaps she was proud of attracting her young son, and even more so, she felt deeply captivated by his elegant and handsome appearance—a two-way connection. Driven by the gradually arousing sexual desire, our two interdependent hearts became both tense and excited, both fearful and yearning, filled with fantasies and anticipation about what was to come.
I noticed my mother's clothes becoming increasingly glamorous; she was dressing for me, enjoying the passive feeling of being stared at by my burning gaze. There was a touch of "visual rape" in this; my mother probably enjoyed this feeling of being "forced" by her beloved son, contentedly waiting for me to take her.
On a cool, mild autumn day, after noon, Mom changed her clothes: she wore a cream-colored embroidered short-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of fitted cropped casual pants. Her short, ear-length hair looked exceptionally delicate and fresh after washing. Mom went to the balcony, and I quietly came up behind her, gently embracing her full waist and kissing her neck. Mom didn't resist at all; instead, she slowly rested her head and body against my chest. I noticed Mom closed her eyes, smiling as she let me caress her. My heart pounded wildly, and my hands gradually wandered to Mom's chest, caressing her.
Mom became somewhat aroused, reaching out to turn my head and kissing my cheek. Looking at Mom's slightly red lips and smelling the fragrant orchid scent, I became even more moved. Mom was like a vibrant crabapple blossom just awakening from a deep sleep, captivating and endearing. I couldn't help but lower my head to kiss her lips. Mom offered her cherry lips with infinite tenderness, closing her eyes at the same time. When I kissed my mother's tender, red, and fiery lips, it was like holding two ripe, sweet fruits in my mouth, savoring them endlessly, unwilling to let go...
After a long while, our lips finally parted reluctantly. My mother was already intoxicated by the blissful moment, clinging tightly to me, softly humming, her face flushed, her starry eyes slightly closed. When a woman doesn't love you, she won't show any reaction to your advances; but if a woman is completely devoted to you, she will willingly offer her red lips for you to savor. I kissed my mother's fragrant lips again, this time we were incredibly excited, becoming one for a full ten minutes, unwilling to separate; we were both exploring every sensitive spot on each other's bodies in passionate love.
My mother, panting, rested her head against my chest, her breath coming in short gasps. "My dear child," she said, "I can't breathe!"
I kissed her forehead and said, "Mom, you were so excited! You were suffocating me."
My mother buried her face in my chest shyly… Words were superfluous now, just as lovers in the throes of passion say, "Silence speaks louder than words."
Finally, after a long and passionate embrace, my mother and I, completely lost in our intoxication, stripped naked and became one! I felt as if I had waited five hundred years for this moment! Guided by my mother, I stepped back into my long-missed birthplace—my childhood Eden, a warm and safe fortress, filled with endless joy. Returning to this familiar place filled me with immense excitement, my heart pounding with joy.
Caught up in my joy, my mother cried out with overwhelming excitement, welcoming me, her wanderer, back to her homeland. I played merrily in the soft, tender embrace of my mother, scattering my love little by little upon the soil that gave me birth.
With each thrust, my mother cried out, just as she had during my delivery, a mixture of pain and bliss: "My good child, I give you everything! Hurry!"
My love for my mother transformed into boundless passion, and I thrust even more fiercely.
I longed to possess my mother, to forever protect this woman I loved so deeply; I wanted to have her!
Just as she had already completely possessed me! With a simultaneous cry from mother and son, we collapsed, leaning on each other, heavy with breath. We continued our passionate lovemaking, releasing all the pent-up emotions we had been holding back. We couldn't distinguish between pleasure and pain; we only wanted to penetrate each other's bodies and possess each other's treasures once and for all…
When our love juices had run dry, my mother and I were utterly exhausted. We embraced, gazing at each other with a tenderness that shone through our weariness. My mother was both happy and pained, and she cried—after all, joy and sorrow are brothers born of the same mother! I held the woman I loved most in my life tightly, letting her tears fall on me. From that moment on, she was my woman, and no one could take her away from me.
Author: Ling Sichen
As the title suggests, this is a novel with a discussion element. When the troubling word "incest" appears repeatedly, we must have a clear understanding of it.
Remember, it's "a clear understanding," not just "a sober understanding," because neither morality nor law can forcibly prevent it. We can only "clearly" know what's going on, not "soberly" despise it morally—after all, the taboo against incest isn't ultimately a product of morality, and who can be sure that close relatives won't experience a strong attraction?
I will begin to tell this long story, using the changing ages of mother and child to reflect how it all happened.
"Sex is everywhere"
More than twenty years ago, when Mom and Dad signed a contract, they officially became a legal couple.
In other words, both parties gained the legally recognized right to have sexual intercourse. Mom and Dad could have sex "protected by law" and have children. Conversely, any sexual activity between men and women that doesn't complete this process is "self-inflicted."
That year, Mom was about 25 years old, and a year later, I came into the world (ironically, we are still very curious about the specific process of our arrival, but that's not something we can know).
Ten months of pregnancy, one day of childbirth—I lived in my mother's warm belly for ten months, during which time my male genitals developed and tightly embraced my mother's tender uterus—truly a happy and blissful time. Finally, amidst my mother's screams and struggles, I left this comfortable paradise, crossed the extremely swollen vagina, and was born with a cry.
If we consider contact between male and female genitals as sexual intercourse, then during the time of the son's birth, sexual intercourse had already occurred with the mother.
But neither the father nor the mother thought this way. They only knew that they had the continuation of life, but never considered that in the process of this new life's emergence, the mother actually had sexual contact with "two" men, not "one."
The arrival of the new life brought joy and trouble. The young father had to work twice as hard to feed his wife and son, while the mother stayed at home with me, the infant.
I often cried loudly because of hunger, so my mother would take off her top to breastfeed me. At this time, my mother's breasts developed to their largest size, soft and firm. She gently held me in her arms, bringing her large, white breasts to my mouth. I eagerly took my mother's swollen nipple into my mouth, greedily suckling at the sweet milk, the ultimate delicacy for a baby, fresh and delicious.
My mother smiled at me like a saint, looking at her crying son in her arms, gently stroking me. I reached out my tiny hands, constantly touching those beautiful mounds of flesh. We always have such respect, praise, appreciation, and longing for women's breasts, because they are a treasure bestowed upon women by the Creator to nurture humanity, so great and so alluring. A man's liking to look at a woman's breasts may not be considered impolite, but rather an uncontrollable urge towards life and a yearning for motherhood.
This was a wonderful time no less than being in the womb; I could fully enjoy my mother's sweet, full breasts—they were mine, and no one could take them away. Of course, my father and mother would also do what they wanted at night. Perhaps my father also longed for my mother's breasts; when they were together, he would always take my mother's nipple into his mouth and suckle with all his might.
Often, I'd see mothers scolding fathers, "Don't be so crazy! You've drunk all the milk, what will our son do?"
Fathers would laugh and say, "It's okay, I'll only drink what our son leaves behind."
Mothers, blushing, would hug me shyly and say, "We won't give it to him, right, son? Mommy's milk is only for you."
Fathers would then burst into laughter.
This is an important detail that shouldn't be easily overlooked: both fathers and young sons are possessive of their mothers' breasts. This can be seen in the father kissing the mother's breasts during intercourse and the baby's longing for the mother's nipple.
What does this possessiveness of the father and son towards the mother's breasts signify? For the son, is it merely a need for breastfeeding or a male's need for a woman? I don't know, and I don't want to delve deeper, otherwise those extreme "moralists" would make me a pariah.
At that time, I was a baby boy, and my mother put me in my own little bed. But I would always cry loudly at night because I was hungry or wet the bed, disturbing their peace. My mother had no choice but to let the three of us sleep together, and I lay between my father and mother.
But that wasn't enough for me, so I would often poop and pee at the same time. Since I was often nestled in my mother's arms, my poop would end up on my father. "What a naughty little thing!" my father would grumble angrily, and he'd have to wash my clothes, which were covered in my excrement. Then I could snuggle in my mother's soft arms and fall asleep contentedly in her gentle, maternal embrace.
Because my father anticipated the unpredictable onslaught of my poop, he kept his distance from my bottom and from my mother as well; I finally had the unique ability of a baby to enjoy my mother's love all to myself.
During this time, my arrival not only reduced my parents' sex life, but my mother's delicate postpartum body also meant she had to spend long periods at home with me.
My father was very busy with work to support three people, so my mother's hormones were likely to take effect when he wasn't home. A woman's breasts are her erogenous zones. When my mother breastfed me,
my little mouth diligently sucked on every part of her nipple—a stark
contrast to my father's sucking, where men would never suckle so carefully and for so long. I think at that moment, my mother was not only breastfeeding but also enjoying the sexual stimulation from her breasts that her child provided. It was a very subtle feeling, known only to the mother herself, a blissful experience of this "hidden and subtle"
sexual pleasure while feeding her child.
Time flies, and six years have passed in the blink of an eye. I am six years old, and my mother is 32. As mentioned above, my mother has always treated me like a baby in her arms, showering me with love and care. My father, due to work, had been away from home for many years, much like when I was a baby. I am certain that my mother's sexual needs were very strong at that time, and I can give several examples to prove it.
1. Although children think they're "adults" at six, I still need my mother to bathe me; otherwise, I'll never get the parts that need cleaning properly.
My mother puts me in a wooden tub, lathers me with soap, and also scrubs my genitals clean. A boy's genitals are, after all, male physiological characteristics. When a mother touches them, even if the son shows no discomfort, does the mother necessarily feel nothing?
I still remember my mother wiping my entire body with a towel, always gazing at me with infinite tenderness. It's well known that boys like to play with their genitals; Freud called this "the earliest form of sexual desire."
When I touch my genitals, my mother scolds me repeatedly, "Don't play with your little penis! You'll get sick!"
Why can my mother touch my genitals so casually, yet be so averse to me playing with my "little penis"?
I think this is very likely because the mother wants to obtain sexual satisfaction from her son without him being aware of "sex"—this prevents him from "going astray" and also makes her feel at ease—this deep-seated mentality is hard to understand.
2. My mother and I often played together on the bed during the day. I can't remember exactly what we played, but one thing I do remember is that my mother liked to play with me while affectionately kissing my cheeks and little mouth.
My mother would hug me and say affectionately, "Little rascal, come here, give Mommy a kiss."
I would immediately pout and kiss her cheek. My mother would then say, "Good boy, give me a kiss."
And we would happily kiss.
At this time, I would always ride on my mother's belly, excitedly shouting, "Giddy up! Horse, run faster!"
My mother would laugh and say, "Little one, you're making Mommy breathless!"
My mother didn't seem to care about kissing me; in her eyes, I was just an ignorant child, and kissing was a loving expression between mother and child. But who can prove that when my mother kissed me passionately, there wasn't a sexual expression involved?
I was a child, and also a man. Kissing can have many meanings; it can express affection while simultaneously providing sexual satisfaction. Regarding
the "emergence of the Oedipus complex,"
I don't remember the specific details at the time; I'll only describe the process and the state of mind within that specific environment.
I think the "Oedipus complex" likely emerged during my childhood, during moments of solitude and intimate contact with my mother. Once this complex arose, it was difficult to shake off because the emotions involved were so deep and complex—it's hard to say whether it was familial love, attachment, romantic love, or sexual desire.
Six years later, I was twelve years old, and my male hormones were gradually developing. So, at this time, perhaps while still deeply attached to my mother, I also experienced a male's attraction to mature women and sexual urges.
My mother was 38 years old at this time, and to me she was incredibly sexy and beautiful: she wasn't tall, about 157 cm, and had a slightly plump figure with a dignified and clear face; her eyes were large and gentle, and her lips were full; her earlobes had always been my favorite feature since childhood—small, delicate, and incredibly tender; her breasts were no longer as large as before, her slender waist was gradually becoming fuller, and her thighs and hips were quite plump.
You can see from this description that I had already learned to carefully observe my mother's body, which was fundamentally different from childhood: a child only knows that their mother is kind and gentle, while a teenager, building upon that foundation, has a vague understanding of "sex."
For a while, I could still sleep with my mother. In my dreams, I was still like a child, tightly hugging my mother's neck. This seemed to make my mother very proud; she often happily told her friends about me: "My precious son is closest to me; he always hugs me tightly at night." My mother
thought I was still the same as when I was born, just a kind of attachment to the mother's body. I felt the same way at the time and didn't feel any discomfort.
But one time, I suddenly felt that my mother beside me was also a woman, a thought that surprised and excited me greatly. Involuntarily, I reached out and hugged her, gently stroking her breasts. This unconscious act made me breathless with nervousness, yet also incredibly happy. I pressed my body against her back, resting my head on her shoulder, feeling warm and gentle, and quickly fell asleep.
In her sleep, my mother gently pushed my hand away, murmuring, "This child never grows up, still wants to nurse!"
This behavior was a mixture of sexual attraction and the attachment of a former child.
Another time, I woke up hazily in the early morning and stroked my mother beside me. It was early autumn, and my mother was wearing a vest; her skin was delicate, her fair and full arms clearly visible, a wisp of downy hair peeking out from under her armpits; her face was delicate and full, her sexy neck and breasts clearly visible.
I felt very happy, hugged my mother tightly, stroking her plump, smooth arms, then holding her neck, resting my head on her chin. Even in my dream, my mother subconsciously reached out to stroke me, pulling me close to her waist, so we were face to face. Her heavy breathing in her sleep excited me greatly; I almost wanted to kiss her lips like a child.
I lay on my side, draping one leg over her well-defined hip, a possessive desire for her body filling my brain. My penis quickly became erect, brushing against her lower abdomen several times. I pressed my face even closer, my forehead against her lips, and she unconsciously hugged me tighter, pressing her full cheek against mine.
I was so happy I almost cried out. I could estimate that our lips were only centimeters apart, and I longed to kiss her soft lips. But I didn't dare. I could only hold her soft waist and caress her small earlobe. The
fact that I didn't dare kiss her like before showed that while I had developed a sensual awareness, I had also developed mental self-restraint. I remember that a year or two before I turned twelve, I would tug at my mother's nightgown in my sleep, trying to grab her breasts; but now I don't dare kiss her.
I think this is related to my mother gradually becoming aware of my sexual maturity. She must have realized that her son had developed at least some sexual feelings and was no longer the ignorant child he once was. So my mother consciously kept her distance from me in certain aspects, making me feel her rejection of my "expressions of affection," which explains my timidity.
There is another point I almost overlooked. If we assume that this incident never happened, it might have greatly reduced my desire to possess my mother.
I still clearly remember when I was only a few years old, I accidentally witnessed my parents playing around in bed. It seemed like they were joking, but it also felt quite sexually stimulating. To be precise, because my parents neglected their child's presence and engaged in something akin to intercourse in front of him, my son developed a desire to have my mother's body like my father did. The long periods of solitude between mother and son further strengthened this desire.
We must not underestimate children's judgment. They can understand the world with keen eyes and rich emotions, which is far superior to explaining the world with language—because many things and many scenes cannot be expressed in words. The
truths that children experience in their hearts, truths they cannot clearly articulate, may remain forever undiscovered by us adults.
Generally speaking, during this period, my attempts at intimacy with my mother (or perhaps "teasing" would be more accurate) were rejected. I felt a mixture of fear, excitement, and desire. Finally, I realized that I was no longer the child I once was; if I wanted to obtain sexual satisfaction through the way children express intimacy with their mothers...
That would be wrong—Mom must have felt the sexual satisfaction I gave her (this
can be seen from her reaction to my caresses in her sleep), but Mom wouldn't actively accept my blatant sexual advances.
In the above text, my frequent use of the word "sex" is merely based on my feelings and judgments, and may not be entirely appropriate, but it is supported by ample theory and examples.
Moralists often vehemently criticize views like mine, accusing them of being "filthy, vulgar, and desecrating the pure bond between mother and child." But "sex" does not preclude our sincere "emotions." There are many ways to express emotions, and "sex" is one of them.
Moreover, "sex" and "emotion" are often inseparable:
1. We can discuss the affair between Ximen Qing and Pan Jinlian in *Water Margin*.
Do men and women, intoxicated by "sex," truly have no feelings for each other? Pan Jinlian's marriage to Wu Dalang was unhappy, so she first hoped for Wu Song, and after being rejected, accepted Ximen Qing's pursuit. Of course, such extramarital affairs are despised by traditional morality, but who can deny the existence of "love" in the pursuit of a man they like?
2. Furthermore, for example, the female protagonist in "The Bridges of Madison County" falls in love with the male reporter, and the two have sex after falling in love. Can you separate "love" and "sex" here?
Considering these reasons, I summarize the above two parts as "the omnipresent sex" and the resulting "Oedipus complex". The following will further describe and analyze the changes in family marital breakdown and the emotional relationship between mother and son.
"Using" sex as revenge; changes in the emotional relationship between mother and son.
We take six years as a time point. Six years later, I am 18 years old and my mother is 44 years old.
I have the composure of an adult and richer emotions, while my mother has lost some of her youthful appearance, with more traces of time on her face, but she has gained a mature charm and a graceful temperament.
In my eyes, my mother has always been so beautiful. No woman has ever impressed me like her: she is intelligent, humorous, hardworking, kind, and dignified. In other words, my love for my mother has only grown stronger, but this "love" is different from before: undeniably, I still have some attachment to her, and a lot of sexual attraction, but more than anything, I am deeply captivated by the extraordinary charm of a mature woman.
This "love" has undergone a huge change, a result of my gradual growth. I no longer express my love to my mother so directly, but rather very subtly; at the same time, I have become bolder, no longer afraid of my mother's rejection.
Then something very unpleasant happened: my father had an affair (note that from this point on, we change our address for our fathers from "Dad" to "Father." This change in address signifies that the boy has become a man, no longer having the same attachment to his father, and perhaps even harboring some hostility).
I remember my mother once telling me that marriages in her generation were generally not very happy. Due to the Cultural Revolution, many people grew up in rural areas and were unable to return to the cities immediately. Their urgent need for sex led many to hastily marry.
We can reasonably conclude that such marriages, based solely on sexual gratification, are unlikely to have an emotional foundation—hence the frequent occurrence of couples in their forties divorcing or having extramarital affairs. This example validates the relationship between "sex" and "emotion" mentioned earlier; forcibly separating the two will yield no results. Similarly, I do not intend to endorse Plato's concept of "love fully armored," nor can I accept that my previous sexual advances would have a positive effect.
So what exactly is "emotion"? It's a question that could be debated endlessly, and I don't want to elaborate.
What I find amusing is that those who engage in extramarital affairs may not derive much satisfaction from the affair. Perhaps initially there's the sexual thrill of forbidden fruit and the excitement of finding "new love," but as time goes on, they discover that the other person isn't so different from their spouse. Thus, we see this cycle: marriage – extramarital affair – divorce – remarriage – another
extramarital affair – another divorce… In the end, everyone gets fed up and decides to stop doing such a laborious and unprofitable thing.
Isn't it ridiculous? Marriage shouldn't be taken lightly, and once you have a wife (or husband), you should fulfill your responsibilities and not easily commit adultery; conversely, those who enjoy philandering shouldn't get married, lest everyone be unhappy.
I've seen the woman who was rumored to have had an affair with my father; she was a slutty, fat nouveau riche, utterly repulsive. Unfortunately, perhaps that's just my father's taste; or perhaps he felt he couldn't compare to my elegant and proud mother, and automatically gave her up—so I repeatedly remind you: marriage shouldn't be taken lightly. My mother
argued with my father about this for a long time; her anger and destructive power were so great that even I, an observer who "didn't participate in the fight," was deeply affected. I witnessed my mother's anguish, banging her head on the ground, and immediately went to comfort her.
My mother leaned sadly on my shoulder, tears streaming down her face, soaking my sleeve. I comforted her, cursing my father's despicable behavior and that damned slut in my heart.
I loved my mother deeply, so I would never allow anyone to hurt her. Although, according to Freud, the father is the son's rival in the competition for the mother, I still wouldn't allow him to be unfaithful to my mother in the slightest (originally, the son should have been happy at this time, as he could have the opportunity to have his mother all to himself).
This emotion, which even I couldn't understand, was perfectly normal for a mother and son with such a deep bond, yet it also resembled the complex feelings of a love triangle.
While comforting my mother who was sobbing in my arms, I experienced a bittersweet feeling, while inwardly plotting a way to get revenge on my father. Taking advantage of a time when my parents were away, I forced myself on that slut (see my humble work, "The Mature Woman Who Came to My Door").
No one knew that after this act of revenge, that slut never dared to flirt with my father again and obediently left. This was the first time I used sex to get revenge on my father. Later, Mom seemed to find out about it. She mentioned it to me casually, but my furious reaction scared her away.
Once, while comforting Mom, I expressed my love by kissing her passionately and holding her tightly in my arms.
Mom understood what I meant and pushed me away, saying, "Don't do this! Are you going to bully me too?"
Looking at the glistening tears on Mom's beautiful face, I almost cried, "Mom, I love you! Why would you rather be bullied by him than accept me?"
Mom angrily slapped me, and seeing my reddened face, she immediately stroked me with heartache and sighed, "What am I supposed to do?"
I hugged Mom again, expressing my apology with deep kisses and caresses. Mom didn't object anymore, obediently letting me comfort her, leaning against me and sobbing. She nestled gently in my arms, and from her helpless and loving eyes, I could see she was waiting for me to win her over. This time, Mom accepted me, but I couldn't bear to have her so easily. I sighed deeply as well, offered a few words of comfort, and then stopped pressuring her. I understood that my mother hadn't truly accepted me; she was using sex to retaliate against my father, and I had no interest in that kind of sex.
It's strange how our first reaction to betrayal is always to retaliate with sex—just as we feel utterly devastated when we see our lover having sex with someone else.
Sex is selfish, and so is love.
When what is private is not respected, people use the same methods to compensate themselves and retaliate against others.
"Mother fell in love with her son."
Under pressure from my mother and me, my father was forced to back down and break off contact with that woman. My mother and father stopped their fighting, and everything returned to normal. But in my eyes, the rift between my mother and father was irreparable; they could never return to their former intimacy. I was very worried about their superficial harmony; I felt a suffocating atmosphere in the house, but I was powerless to do anything about it.
Time flew by, and four years passed in the blink of an eye. I was 22, and my mother was 48. My infatuation with my mother grew stronger every day and never wavered. During this time, my mother seemed to have suddenly regained the charm of a young woman, becoming radiant. She was still rather plump, but she had completely lost the vibrant spirit of youth.
I was pleasantly surprised by my mother's changes and proud that she still maintained a youthful mindset.
The distance between my father and my mother was widening; he also felt unwelcome, so he focused his attention on work and socializing. If I wasn't home, my mother would be very lonely, with no one to talk to. As I became more independent, it seemed that there was even less for my mother and me to talk about.
This was something I really didn't want to see, and I resolved to try my best to understand my mother and care for this lonely, charming, and beautiful woman. I've already referred to my mother as "a woman" here, because our relationship is more like that of adult friends, no longer a simple, childish mother and son.
I often take the initiative to chat with my mother, letting my thoughts and knowledge flow freely, engaging in rambling and imaginative discussions. My mother is delighted by my maturity and captivated by my increasingly outstanding demeanor, because I can see everything in the tender gaze she gives me.
In our spare time, we do housework together while happily chatting; the harmonious scene is indescribable, and the sentiment is something that those who constantly talk about "sentiment" but lack substance can only dream of. What is sentiment? It's a noble and elegant state of mind, a tacit and harmonious pairing, which cannot be learned without heartfelt communication and rich inner qualities; at best, it's just a superficial imitation, all show and no substance.
I happily enjoy all of this, as if I've returned to my innocent and joyful childhood. My mother was also very intelligent. She not only listened but also offered guidance. This made me even more captivated—of all the girls and women I had ever dated, none understood me or offered such guidance as my mother. Her charm was unparalleled! What reason did I have not to love such a woman?
Gradually, my mother developed a kind of spiritual dependence on me. I often noticed her lowering her head slightly, gazing at me with dreamy eyes, as if I were her whole life. A sweet smile played on her face, barely perceptible, like the shyness and tenderness of a young girl in first love facing her lover.
At this moment, I would deliberately stop and say with a smile, "Mom, what are you laughing at?"
My mother would then realize that she was completely engrossed, and blush, quickly saying, "Nothing! Please continue."
I would look at her with a sly gaze, revealing a knowing and warm smile, and continue to share my views and do my chores. My mother would involuntarily stop again, casting her affectionate glances at me once more; her bright eyes seemed to be permanently attached to me.
This is a woman's reliance on and devotion to a man; I can express the situation so clearly.
Because of my care, thoughtfulness, and increasingly mature charm, my mother has finally experienced a completely new kind of enjoyment.
How intoxicating this is compared to those foolish courtship attempts of the past! My meticulous care in daily life and my continuous spiritual growth have made my mother feel that she has gained a man's protection and care, which is the most important pillar for a woman. Deep in their minds, every woman has a psychological dependence on men and a desire to be protected and valued. When she feels that the man beside her treats her in this way, she will give him sincere gratitude and even all her love.
My care for my mother doesn't make me expect anything in return; I just want to savor this fleeting moment of beauty—but to be honest, if my mother truly gave me everything, I would be very excited to accept her love now.
Once, I was standing on the balcony, lost in thought, when, without me noticing, my mother came to me. My mother hugged me from behind, resting her head on my shoulder, and gently chuckled, asking, "Silly boy, what are you daydreaming about?"
I felt an overwhelming tenderness, and my breath quickened involuntarily. I took her hands and kissed them deeply, then turned and pulled her close, my arms around her soft shoulders. My body was hot; such intimate contact had become rare.
I kissed her cheeks and earlobes, and she flinched slightly, playfully scolding me, "Still so naughty!"
Looking at her shy expression, a strong desire surged through me, making me almost unable to control myself. I wanted to become one with her right then and there! Because I loved her so much! I pulled her even closer with my arms, my hand inadvertently brushing against her armpit, feeling her full, soft breasts.
My mother didn't move, continuing to talk to me gently. I released her, took her hands in mine, and gazed at her once more.
My mother's smile is the most beautiful flower in the world. Lost in this pure and beautiful moment, I didn't want to disturb it, so I tried hard to suppress my rising desire. My mother gently asked, "What are you looking at? Silly boy? Don't you recognize your mother?"
I said earnestly, "Mom, you're so beautiful! If you went for beauty treatments and health maintenance regularly, no one would guess you're almost 50."
My mother happily chided me, "You naughty boy, such a sweet tongue! When did you learn to fawn over your mother?"
I was telling the truth, and my mother laughed heartily.
Although I didn't take the initiative, I was certain of my mother's affection for me. I often stared at my mother's beautiful and captivating figure, admiring her repeatedly. She attracted me like a goddess; and she always looked at me with tender affection, her ever-present glances touching my heart. I never imagined that one day I would actually win my mother's love; something I never even dreamed of before. Our mutual care, understanding, and tacit agreement laid a solid foundation for us. All that was needed was the alluring and exciting stimulant of sex to ignite it, and then everything fell into place.
My gaze towards my mother grew increasingly intense. She seemed to sense it, appearing somewhat uncomfortable, yet also quite satisfied. Perhaps she was proud of attracting her young son, and even more so, she felt deeply captivated by his elegant and handsome appearance—a two-way connection. Driven by the gradually arousing sexual desire, our two interdependent hearts became both tense and excited, both fearful and yearning, filled with fantasies and anticipation about what was to come.
I noticed my mother's clothes becoming increasingly glamorous; she was dressing for me, enjoying the passive feeling of being stared at by my burning gaze. There was a touch of "visual rape" in this; my mother probably enjoyed this feeling of being "forced" by her beloved son, contentedly waiting for me to take her.
On a cool, mild autumn day, after midday, Mom changed her clothes: she wore a cream-colored embroidered short-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of fitted cropped casual pants. Her short, ear-length hair looked exceptionally delicate and fresh after washing. Mom went to the balcony, and I quietly came up behind her, gently embracing her full waist and kissing her neck. Mom didn't resist at all; instead, she slowly rested her head and body against my chest. I noticed that Mom closed her eyes, smiling as she let me caress her. My heart pounded wildly, and my hands gradually moved to caress Mom's chest.
My mother was moved. She reached out and turned my head, kissing my cheek. Looking at her slightly red lips and smelling the sweet fragrance of orchids, I was even more captivated. My mother was like a vibrant crabapple blossom just awakening from a deep sleep, captivating and endearing. I couldn't help but lower my head to kiss her lips. My mother tenderly offered her cherry lips, closing her eyes at the same time. When I kissed her tender, fiery red lips, it felt like holding two ripe, sweet fruits in my mouth, savoring them endlessly, unwilling to let go…
After a long while, our lips reluctantly parted. My mother was still immersed in the blissful moment, pressing close to me, softly humming, her face flushed, her starry eyes slightly closed. When a woman doesn't love you, she won't show any reaction to your advances; but if a woman is completely devoted to you, she will willingly offer her red lips for you to savor. I kissed my mother's fragrant lips again, and this time we became one, incredibly excited, for a full ten minutes, unwilling to separate; we explored every sensitive spot on each other's bodies in passionate love.
My mother, panting, rested her head against my chest, saying breathlessly, "My dear, I can't breathe!"
I kissed her forehead, saying, "Mom, you were so excited just now! You made me breathless."
My mother shyly buried her face in my chest… Words were superfluous now, just as lovers in the throes of passion say, "Silence speaks louder than words."
Finally, after a long and lingering embrace, my mother and I, completely lost in our passion, stripped naked and became one! I felt as if I had waited five hundred years for this moment! Guided by my mother, I stepped back into my long-missed birthplace—my childhood Eden, a warm and safe fortress, filled with endless joy. Returning to this familiar place filled me with extraordinary excitement, my heart pounding with joy.
Caught up in my joy, my mother cried out with overwhelming excitement, welcoming me, her wanderer, back to her homeland. I played merrily in the soft, tender embrace of my mother, scattering my love little by little upon the soil that gave me birth.
With each thrust, my mother cried out, just as she had during my delivery, a mixture of pain and bliss: "My good child, I give you everything! Hurry!"
My love for my mother transformed into boundless passion, and I thrust even more fiercely.
I longed to possess my mother, to forever protect this woman I loved so deeply; I wanted to have her!
Just as she had already completely possessed me! With a simultaneous cry from mother and son, we collapsed, leaning on each other, heavy with breath. We continued our passionate lovemaking, releasing all the pent-up emotions we had held back for so long. We couldn't distinguish between pleasure and pain; we only wanted to be inside each other, to possess each other once and for all…
When our love juices had run dry, my mother and I were utterly exhausted. We embraced, gazing at each other with a tenderness that shone through our weariness. My mother was both happy and pained, and she cried—after all, joy and sorrow are siblings born of the same mother! I held the woman I loved most in my life tightly, letting her tears fall on me. From that moment on, she was my woman, and no one could take her away from me.

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