A beautiful sunny day

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

Each day, I tick off a small box on the calendar. Soon, my scheme will succeed. I've practically racked my brains. The closer the day gets, the more excited I become. I've staked everything on this; if I don't get what I want, I'll lose everything.

I bought an old house in a "colonial style" and renovated it myself, making the space more functional. I made a living as a carpenter while working in graduate school, so decorating and furniture making are no problem for me. I'll build a large bed myself, using the finest pine. So many wonderful moments with my sweetheart will be spent in it. I added a closet to the bedroom to hang my sweetheart's beautiful clothes. To prepare for her arrival, I've filled it with the latest and sexiest clothes, for both inner and outer wear.

Do they fit? Do they fit well? Of course, I'll ask about the size. Most women don't like men buying them fashion bags, but I insist on buying them for her. A woman's measurements, bust size, and bra size are secrets, not easily revealed unless used to show off. She was a little embarrassed to say it. What mother would tell her son her bra size? I told her with utmost tenderness, "If you have a standard of body shape in mind that you're not satisfied with and are ashamed to tell me, that's okay. Just say what you think is your ideal. Then work towards that goal." When she arrived, all the clothes I bought for her fit perfectly.

I found a reason to tell her: "Your son is a university professor, someone important and respected. You must dress appropriately. The best fashions sold in the biggest stores in China aren't fashionable in America. Don't bring clothes; I'll buy and select the best for you. You don't need to bring anything; everything is here." I told her that bringing herself was enough. I missed her the most. She should understand that I was lovesick, and the best cure for this was herself.

She was able to apply to come abroad to reunite with me thanks to the help of a fellow townsman with considerable connections. I found an American university to admit his son, and he helped me with the approval process back in China. I handled her US entry procedures, taking a risk by applying on the grounds of marriage. Surprisingly, I got the visa; everything went unexpectedly smoothly. Heaven was on my side!

I made her understand that for things to work out, she had to fully cooperate and convince the US consul that we were getting married. Otherwise, she couldn't come to the US. How to cooperate? Create evidence to prove we were a couple. How to prove it? Write love letters. Yes! Love letters are private, so they are strong evidence. They had to be handwritten and shown to the consul, making sure he believed it.

I stipulated that she write at least one love letter every week. What I wrote was all genuine, even explicit. Under this guise, the truth was revealed. My mother said she didn't dare read them. I wrote about how much I loved her, missed her, and wanted to kiss her—the cheesy words made her blush. I said, "You can treat it like a romance novel, put yourself in her shoes, and believe it's real." I fantasized that we were a long-distance couple, meeting, falling in love, and even having a physical relationship on a journey…

She said, “I’m not very well-educated, how could I write that?” I said, “You can do it, you definitely can. Everyone can write love letters. As long as you think about going abroad and reuniting with me, inspiration will come.”

For example, she wrote: “My dear Bin, I can’t stop thinking about you since we parted. Receiving your letter is like rain on parched land… You know how much your little Jun sister hopes to go to America tomorrow, to be in your arms, receiving your love.” It wasn’t eloquent, but it made me fantasize that she was already in love with me. After writing for a year or two, I became confused. Was it real or fake?

It was these “love letters” that sustained me through those days of waiting, igniting the flame of love in my heart. Until that day, I received a phone call informing me that the American consul had stamped her passport.

My fellow countryman, who had come to study with his son, promised to bring my “wife” from a thousand miles away.

I placed a photo of her on my bedside table. Soon, I won't have to make love to a photograph anymore. The beautiful woman in the picture will soon come to life, to sleep with me. And I believe the real her is even more beautiful and captivating than the image in the photograph. That photo was one I specifically asked her to take for me. Surprisingly, no one in town could take a decent picture of her. So, I went to the biggest photo studio in town for a professional "portrait." The studio owner ripped her off, leaving me with dozens of heavily made-up photos of my mother, dressed in various fashionable clothes and evening gowns, looking utterly dowdy.

Actually, whether she looks pretty or not doesn't matter. If possible, I'd rather have a clean, unadorned nude photo. If I were to take the picture, I want to turn back time, to capture a fleeting moment. In my distant old home, in the kitchen outside the dilapidated house, the back of my young mother squatting down to take a bath. Morning light streamed through the half-open window, steam rising in a warm, bubbling motion. Droplets of water dripped down her smooth back, revealing a deep groove between her rounded buttocks from which water cascaded. She lifted her jade-like buttocks to wash her hair, lathering it with soap. The silhouette of one breast swayed with her arm, bouncing up and down. Suddenly, she turned to look at me, calling out, "Binbin, is that you?" Her two heaving breasts rushed towards me…

The auspicious day and time solemnly arrived, welcoming my bride.

After many years apart, the figure of my beloved appeared at the arrivals exit. I couldn't believe it was real; my heart pounded like a deer. She looked around, searching for me in the crowd. I waved to her, and my fellow villager, with sharp eyes, pointed in my direction. She looked over, her expression timid, flustered, and hesitant. It was my chance to use my charm. I ran over, calling out "Mom!" and tears welled up in her eyes. In the bustling crowd of travelers, she grabbed my outstretched arms and pulled me into her embrace. In front of everyone, she couldn't control her emotions, burying her face in my chest and sobbing loudly.

"Mom, you've arrived. We can depend on each other, we won't be separated," I comforted her.

I wanted to hold my beloved tightly, without hesitation, holding her cold, stiff body in my arms, pressing her close to my chest. This was the feeling I had longed for, skin to skin, breath to breath. In the crowd, it seemed as if only the two of us existed, eternally embracing and loving each other. I tenderly stroked her shoulders and back. In this passionate moment, seemingly unintentionally, yet deliberately, I touched her breasts, caressing them. I didn't need to inform her; this was an atmosphere I deliberately created, arranging a full physical contact while she had just disembarked and hadn't yet settled in. She needed this hug, and at least the caressing of her breasts and the touching of her buttocks would lessen her fear of more intimate contact in the future.

I believed that my touch on her body wouldn't be without a physical reaction. However, my excitement overshadowed the sexual arousal. When she calmed down, the stimulating caresses she received from a man would call to her from within, stirring her.

She innocently leaned on me, her chest heaving rapidly. I moved in rhythm with her breathing, pressing her breasts against my chest, rubbing them against mine. Even through her bra and clothes, the rolling of those two mounds, the stimulation of our flesh rubbing against each other, penetrated my entire body, and I couldn't bear it. I trembled, even my voice trembled. Thinking about how my carefully laid scheme was unfolding step by step, everything was going according to plan, I couldn't help but feel a sense of smug satisfaction. The idyllic family reunion I orchestrated was a trap of lust, a snare to ensnare my mother, to make her my captive, to steal her virginity. A terrifying, defying-the-world idea!

My mother, in my arms, in public, so wantonly caressing her buttocks. Her tears soaked my clothes. Just when everything was under control, my penis, out of control, hardened and swollen, pressing against her lower abdomen. Like a snake, it tried to wriggle into the hole between her legs. We were too short for each other; it couldn't reach where it wanted to go.

Did my mother sense its stirring? Did she sense its need for her? Would she yield and let it in?

I had already made love to her in my mind, but it was all just a fantasy. Soon, she would have to undergo a mental transformation, preparing herself sexually and emotionally, willingly offering herself to her husband. This was just the beginning. I put my arm around her waist, cupped her face, and looked at her tearful eyes and tired face. My words were: "Mom, you must be tired from the journey. I'll take you home." In my heart, I thought: "Completely satisfied, I've accepted you."

I held her still, wiping away her tears with my fingers. She said, "I can do it myself." I said, "No, let me." She looked up; there were tears in the corners of my eyes too, and she wiped them away for me. Even after wiping away the tears, she wouldn't let go. I had to give her a kiss now, the courtesy of welcoming a loved one at the airport. But I felt I didn't need to ask her permission, so I lifted her waist, brought her lips to my mouth, and gave her a surprise, wet kiss. She opened her eyes and watched me kiss her, her eyes avoiding my gaze, looking away helplessly. She dared not move, letting me suckle her lips, her breath carrying the licorice scent of pickled fruits from her hometown, until I felt her lips change from cold to warm before releasing them. She lowered her head, wiping away the saliva remaining on her lips with the back of her hand. I immediately took her hand and said, "Come on, hold my hand and follow me. This airport is huge, you don't speak English, don't get lost."

I took her hand, lifted her luggage, and stepped out of the airport. She looked around, occasionally wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand; the feeling of that wet kiss should still linger on her lips. She had never left home before, and the grandeur of a metropolitan airport in America was a great shock to a Chinese woman who had lived in a small town for generations. Her hand, in mine, I gently held. It was a hand that had worked, a hand that had raised me. At first, the hand I held seemed not to belong to her, held blankly in my son's hand. Gradually, it became soft, relaxed, and trustingly intertwined with my fingers, following me step by step.

And on her face was a question mark. What just happened was unstoppable. The series of events—hugging her son, caressing him, and kissing him passionately—needed an explanation. On the way into the city, I began to instill in her the ways of surviving in America, and reassured her that I had everything arranged, and that it was all for her sake…

“Mom, do you know why you came to America?”

“To reunite with you.”

“Of course. But you must remember, and you must understand, that our reason is marriage. The U.S. immigration authorities are very strict; if they find any loopholes, they will arrest you immediately and lock you up.”

“I understand.”

“Then, if someone asks you, ‘Who am I to you?’ how will you answer them?”

She hesitated slightly.

"Your behavior will arouse suspicion. You need to be able to speak without hesitation, for our benefit. Now tell me, who am I?"

"My husband."

"Right."

"What will you tell others about you?"

"Wife."

"You need to get used to addressing me as husband and wife in front of everyone, no matter who they are. Understand? Don't let anyone see through it. The police will arrest you."

"I know."

I repeated these words over and over, making her practice until we arrived home. I opened the car door for her and showed her the newly painted house.

"It looks bigger than in the photos." She looked surprised.

I took her hand; she hadn't expected to hold her hand even after we got home. But her hand was already in my grasp. Holding her hand gave me a strange feeling—intimate, romantic, and self-absorbed. That hand that had carried me through my childhood, now I would hold it and lead her through the gates of love and desire.

"Mom, this house is yours."

"Mine?"

"It's your home, of course it's yours. Once all the formalities are completed, your name will be on the land deed, making you a joint owner. Everything I own is yours."

My words moved her. The house's Western-style furnishings and spacious layout made her feel like she was in a grand garden.

She said, "Such a big house, you live alone?"

"No, it's just the two of us."

"Are all houses in America this big?"

"In America, this isn't considered big, nor is it small."

I showed her around the upstairs, downstairs, and basement garage, showing her every room before finally leading her to our bedroom.

"Mom, this is our bedroom, it's a suite with a huge wardrobe. You can buy lots and lots of shoes and clothes. That's the bathroom. Open the curtains and you can see the mountain view and the garden. Do you like it?"

She looked around, a little surprised. Then, a little awkwardly, I said,

"We're sleeping here? There's only one bed?"

"That's right. I made this bed myself; it's big enough that two people won't feel cramped."

"Are there spare rooms in the house that you rent out? Why…?"

"Don't ask why. There's a reason for everything. It's just the two of us, but we're going to sleep together. Forgot? We came together under the pretext of marriage; sleeping in different beds would raise suspicion. Besides, back in China, our family only had one bed, and what was wrong with that? Don't you want to sleep with me?"

It was a question she couldn't say no to, and my suggestion of sleeping together had a deeper meaning, but she couldn't refuse.

I grabbed her hand, lifted her up, and gently stroked the back of her hand. With a firm tone, I led her to the wardrobe, displaying the treasures I had collected for her.

"Mom, is it okay if I wear these panties? This robe is a matching set." I took out the nice things I had prepared and handed them to her, saying, "You're tired. Take off your dirty clothes, take a shower, and go to bed."

She took the things I had bought for her, stunned, her face full of suspicion, but she didn't dare to say anything.

"They're all Victoria Secret, designer brands. They should fit your figure, and I guarantee they'll be comfortable and close-fitting. Go put them on and come out to see. If the size isn't right, you can exchange them." I stretched out her panties, showed her the tag pinned to the waistband, and insisted with a firm look that she must wear them. I could tell she was quite embarrassed to discuss her underwear with me. But I didn't mince words, acting as if it were normal, and played with the very sexy panties and robe I was going to give her, explaining to her that it was difficult for her to face me. She could only lower her eyes, hiding her embarrassment, and turn to go into the bathroom.

"Isn't there a door?" she stammered in the bathroom.

"Yes. The bathroom door in the master bedroom doesn't need to be closed. Life in America is very casual. You'll have to get used to it."

"Really? What about when I shower and go to the toilet?"

I didn't answer.

"Then don't look."

Of course I would look at her. She was in a corner of the bathroom, nervously taking off her dress, without taking off her bra and panties, and just putting on a robe. I saw it all.

I said,

"Actually, American men don't wear pajamas. They don't wear pajamas in the street, and they don't wear pajamas to sleep."

"What do they wear if not pajamas?" she asked curiously.

"Men usually sleep naked, but I don't. Some women don't wear anything at all, and those who are conservative only wear a robe, like you."

After hearing my words, she quickly took off her panties and put on the brand-new panties I had given her. Then, under the robe, she unhooked her bra. Two nipples protruded from the thin fabric of the robe, making her breasts look even firmer.

She didn't know that no matter how she tried to cover herself, it was always inadequate; hiding her private parts only revealed her kidneys, making it impossible for me to avoid seeing her naked body. She kept her head down, her back to me, unable to escape the gaze sweeping over her entire body. She dared not see her son inspecting her nakedness—her full breasts, her rounded thighs, the triangle between her mons pubis and thighs, the pubic hair covering that area and her vulva… It was her mother's body, fully or partially naked; to see it was a blessing. Afterwards, she had to dress and undress in front of me every day, and I worried that she would lose her shyness if she became accustomed to nudity. In my imagination, even if my mother accepted the title and responsibilities of a wife, even if she bore me children, her routine sexual intercourse would still be the same—coy and shy.

But on the very first day, the first time she entered my room, I was able to let her change without any covering under my gaze, and I even caught a glimpse of her fully naked body. I was satisfied with the feeling of embracing her and caressing her. And I was not disappointed by her nakedness. Never use the fantasies of masturbation as a standard. Your mother is already undressed in your bedroom, her breasts and buttocks gleaming, her figure slender and beautiful. The fantasy has become reality; do you still expect her to have the figure of a naked woman in an attic? Of course, I also plan to sleep with her. But that's for later. I'm not in a hurry; I won't rape my own mother. She must be willing before I can make love. Because I pursue noble love, not fleeting pleasure.

"See the laundry basket? Put the dirty clothes in it. The red brush is yours, and the face towel is on the rack."

While my mother was washing up, I began to undress. When she came out, I was only wearing a vest and underwear, and we met briefly.

She had put on a robe and transformed; I couldn't take my eyes off her—the shape of her breasts, the simple cut of her underwear. It showed off her mature and beautiful figure even more than the nude photos she took in China. The beauty wasn't that she had the curves of those lingerie models in *Metropolitan* magazine—I was looking at those magazines and buying her underwear based on the pictures. The way Mom looked in her nightgown was simply beautiful. She looked down at me, the lace of the nightgown feeling like ants on her skin, making her look unnatural.

"Mom, you look so beautiful. You look more like an American woman now."

"I still prefer wearing pajamas."

"Only old women wear pajamas. Look, there are all sorts of trendy styles in the closet, you can choose for yourself later."

I rinsed my mouth and washed my face, still watching her. She opened the closet, looked around, and then sat upright at one end of the bed. I came out and sat beside her. She subconsciously shifted her body to make way, and I moved closer, placing my hand on her bare shoulder. The thin strap had a small bow. She only showed her shoulders and thighs, but it looked as if she were already naked. When I touched the bow, she shuddered. Was she afraid I would untie the knot and the nightgown would come undone?

"Mom, welcome home. This is your home, our home. Do you like it?" I pressed her shoulders, gently massaging them.

"The house is too big, I'm afraid I'll get lost."

"Actually, no matter how big the house is, we only sleep in one room, one bed. You've already done a great job, even though we've only been in America for less than a day."

Then, I pressed the rocker switch by the bedside to turn off the bedroom lights. I slid my hand down her shoulder, put my arm around her waist, and pulled her closer to me. Her body moved a little closer.

She shivered again.

"I thought you were asleep. You look so preoccupied. Are you not used to it?"

"Maybe a little, I don't know."

"Don't worry about me. We're the only two people closest to each other in the world. Just relax and enjoy yourself now. In America, you can have anything. Whatever you want, I'll buy it for you. Wherever you want to go, I'll take you. I've promised you everything." "

I know you're very good to me, very filial."

"You must rest assured. In America, a son can not support his mother, but a husband cannot abandon his wife; he has to pay support. You're not only my mother, but also my wife in legal status. So you don't need to worry about anything, understand?" "

Actually, I'm worried that a sham marriage is illegal and will burden you."

"Shh! Don't say it's a sham marriage. We're really married. A sham marriage is deceiving the government; if people find out, they'll arrest us and put us in jail. All the procedures are official; you're my legal wife." "

But… that's just for show for the immigration authorities."

"Don't say that. It's all true. It's all fact. Every morning when I wake up, the first thought is: Bin'er and I are married, we are a real couple. Remember, don't give anything away." "

I'm afraid I won't be able to do it."

"Don't worry, it's not too difficult. America is different from China; private life is the most important. Close the door, and whatever you do in your room, no one will question you or interfere. When you're out, I'll be with you; just do as I say." My

mother nodded.

"Mom, it's time to sleep. How about a goodnight kiss?"

"What's that?"

"Americans kiss their loved ones before bed. Mothers kiss their children, husbands kiss their wives, and so on..."

Before she could respond, I tightened my grip around her waist, and she leaned closer, nestled in my arms. Before she could react, our lips were already locked. Her eyes darted around for a moment, then closed.

My kiss wasn't as passionate as the one at the airport, that was a surprise, a reckless one. This was a bedtime kiss, meant to be warm and gentle. If she could feel it, it was the beginning of romance. A light kiss, like a weightless feather brushing her lips, she opened her eyes, thinking it was over, but meeting my tender gaze, she immediately closed them again. "Mom, I've noticed you don't have much experience kissing. With more kisses, you'll gradually understand the difference between each one."

On Mom's body, her bra was removed, revealing a sheer nightgown, making her much softer. She leaned closer. My heart moved inch by inch from her waist upwards, exploring the circumference of her breasts and touching her nipples. The soft mounds of flesh were nestled in my palms, like holding a rare treasure, I couldn't put them down. A woman would be terrified and struggle if her breasts were played with like this. But she didn't react, as if asleep.

She grew heavier in my arms, and I called her name in her ear to see if she was asleep. She didn't answer. My eyelids were heavy, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. I carried her to bed, her bare thighs partially hidden under her nightgown. I tried to lull her to sleep, but I couldn't. I was so excited that I couldn't believe what had happened that day was real. I gazed at my mother's kind face, weathered by time yet still retaining its simplicity and gentleness. I gently caressed her face, her shoulders, her breasts. Then I moved up her legs, down her calves, and her thighs. I reached under her already lifted nightgown and slowly pulled down her panties, inch by inch, until they reached her knees. From that narrow angle, I admired the exit from which I had come into this world. Her plump, sweet labia, her full mons pubis, and her curly hair made my mouth water.

I parted her thighs slightly and inserted a finger. My mother shifted slightly, and I withdrew. I waited for her to adjust her sleeping position so I could admire her buttocks up close. She seemed to know what I wanted and curled up on her side to sleep. Those were the same firm buttocks I'd seen as a child. Like her breasts, they were larger than before. But as I touched them, testing their elasticity, I was confident that if she could be properly cared for and maintained, she could serve me for many more years. These things couldn't be called "feminine treasures." I had no shortage of women and female professors throwing themselves at me, but those were my mother's possessions; she wouldn't easily give them to me. I had to cherish and protect them when I used them in the future.

When I kissed her buttocks, she shifted her body and began to murmur in her sleep. Afraid of waking her, I helped her put her panties back on and lay down beside her, letting her breath wash over my face.

I started to feel dizzy, but I held on, hoping that when my sweetheart opened her eyes, she would see me.

I checked off a small square on the calendar each day. Soon, my scheme would succeed. I had almost exhausted all my thoughts. The closer the day drew, the more excited I became. I was betting everything; if I didn't get what I wanted, I would lose everything.

I bought an old house in a "colonial style" and renovated it myself, making the space more functional. I made a living as a carpenter while working in graduate school, so decorating and furniture making were no problem for me. I made a large bed myself, using the finest pine. So many beautiful moments with my sweetheart would be spent in it. I added a closet to the bedroom to hang my sweetheart's beautiful clothes. In preparation for her arrival, I had filled it with the latest and sexiest clothes, for her to wear both inside and out.

Would they fit? Would they fit perfectly? Of course, I would ask about the size. Most women don't like men buying them fashion bags, but I insisted on buying them for her. A woman's measurements, including her bust, waist, and hip measurements, are a secret, not easily revealed unless used for boasting. She was a little embarrassed to say it. What mother would tell her son her bra size? I told her with utmost care, "If you have a standard of body shape in mind that you're not satisfied with and are ashamed to tell me, that's okay. Just say what you consider ideal. Then work towards that goal." When you arrived, all the clothes I bought for her would fit perfectly.

I found a reason to tell her: "Your son is a university professor, someone important and respected. You must dress appropriately. The best fashions sold in the biggest stores in China aren't fashionable in America. Don't bring clothes; I'll buy and select the best for you. You don't need to bring anything; everything is here." I told her that bringing herself was enough. What I missed most was her. She should understand that I was lovesick, and the best cure for this was herself.

Her application to come abroad to reunite with me was thanks to the help of a well-connected fellow townsman. I found an American university to admit his son, and he helped me get the necessary permits in China. I handled the US entry procedures, taking a risk by applying on the grounds of marriage. Surprisingly, I got the visa; everything went unexpectedly smoothly. Heaven was on my side!

I made her understand that for things to work out, she had to fully cooperate and convince the US consul that we were getting married. Otherwise, she couldn't come to America. How to cooperate? Create evidence to prove we were a couple. How to prove it? Write love letters. Yes! Love letters are private, so they are strong evidence. They had to be handwritten and shown to the consul, making sure he believed it.

I stipulated that she write at least one love letter every week. What I wrote was all genuine, even explicit. Under this guise, the truth was revealed. My mother said she didn't dare read them. I wrote about how much I loved her, missed her, and wanted to kiss her—the cheesy words made her blush. I said, "You can treat it like a romance novel, put yourself in her shoes, and believe it's real." I fantasized that we were a long-distance couple, meeting, falling in love, and even having a physical relationship on a journey…

She said, “I’m not very well-educated, how could I write that?” I said, “You can do it, you definitely can. Everyone can write love letters. As long as you think about going abroad and reuniting with me, inspiration will come.”

For example, she wrote: “My dear Bin, I can’t stop thinking about you since we parted. Receiving your letter is like rain on parched land… You know how much your little Jun sister hopes to go to America tomorrow, to be in your arms, receiving your love.” It wasn’t eloquent, but it made me fantasize that she was already in love with me. After writing for a year or two, I became confused. Was it real or fake?

It was these “love letters” that sustained me through those days of waiting, igniting the flame of love in my heart. Until that day, I received a phone call informing me that the American consul had stamped her passport.

My fellow countryman, who had come to study with his son, promised to bring my “wife” from a thousand miles away.

I placed a photo of her on my bedside table. Soon, I won't have to make love to a photograph anymore. The beautiful woman in the picture will soon come to life, to sleep with me. And I believe the real her is even more beautiful and captivating than the image in the photograph. That photo was one I specifically asked her to take for me. Surprisingly, no one in town could take a decent picture of her. So, I went to the biggest photo studio in town for a professional "portrait." The studio owner ripped her off, leaving me with dozens of heavily made-up photos of my mother, dressed in various fashionable clothes and evening gowns, looking utterly dowdy.

Actually, whether she looks pretty or not doesn't matter. If possible, I'd rather have a clean, unadorned nude photo. If I were to take the picture, I want to turn back time, to capture a fleeting moment. In my distant old home, in the kitchen outside the dilapidated house, the back of my young mother squatting down to take a bath. Morning light streamed through the half-open window, steam rising in a warm, bubbling motion. Droplets of water dripped down her smooth back, revealing a deep groove between her rounded buttocks from which water cascaded. She lifted her jade-like buttocks to wash her hair, lathering it with soap. The silhouette of one breast swayed with her arm, bouncing up and down. Suddenly, she turned to look at me, calling out, "Binbin, is that you?" Her two heaving breasts rushed towards me…

The auspicious day and time solemnly arrived, welcoming my bride.

After many years apart, the figure of my beloved appeared at the arrivals exit. I couldn't believe it was real; my heart pounded like a deer. She looked around, searching for me in the crowd. I waved to her, and my fellow villager, with sharp eyes, pointed in my direction. She looked over, her expression timid, flustered, and hesitant. It was my chance to use my charm. I ran over, calling out "Mom!" and tears welled up in her eyes. In the bustling crowd of travelers, she grabbed my outstretched arms and pulled me into her embrace. In front of everyone, she couldn't control her emotions, burying her face in my chest and sobbing loudly.

"Mom, you've arrived. We can depend on each other, we won't be separated," I comforted her.

I wanted to hold my beloved tightly, without hesitation, holding her cold, stiff body in my arms, pressing her close to my chest. This was the feeling I had longed for, skin to skin, breath to breath. In the crowd, it seemed as if only the two of us existed, eternally embracing and loving each other. I tenderly stroked her shoulders and back. In this passionate moment, seemingly unintentionally, yet deliberately, I touched her breasts, caressing them. I didn't need to inform her; this was an atmosphere I deliberately created, arranging a full physical contact while she had just disembarked and hadn't yet settled in. She needed this hug, and at least the caressing of her breasts and the touching of her buttocks would lessen her fear of more intimate contact in the future.

I believed that my touch on her body wouldn't be without a physical reaction. However, my excitement overshadowed the sexual arousal. When she calmed down, the stimulating caresses she received from a man would call to her from within, stirring her.

She innocently leaned on me, her chest heaving rapidly. I moved in rhythm with her breathing, pressing her breasts against my chest, rubbing them against mine. Even through her bra and clothes, the rolling of those two mounds, the stimulation of our flesh rubbing against each other, penetrated my entire body, and I couldn't bear it. I trembled, even my voice trembled. Thinking about how my carefully laid scheme was unfolding step by step, everything was going according to plan, I couldn't help but feel a sense of smug satisfaction. The idyllic family reunion I orchestrated was a trap of lust, a snare to ensnare my mother, to make her my captive, to steal her virginity. A terrifying, defying-the-world idea!

My mother, in my arms, in public, so wantonly caressing her buttocks. Her tears soaked my clothes. Just when everything was under control, my penis, out of control, hardened and swollen, pressing against her lower abdomen. Like a snake, it tried to wriggle into the hole between her legs. We were too short for each other; it couldn't reach where it wanted to go.

Did my mother sense its stirring? Did she sense its need for her? Would she yield and let it in?

I had already made love to her in my mind, but it was all just a fantasy. Soon, she would have to undergo a mental transformation, preparing herself sexually and emotionally, willingly offering herself to her husband. This was just the beginning. I put my arm around her waist, cupped her face, and looked at her tearful eyes and tired face. My words were: "Mom, you must be tired from the journey. I'll take you home." In my heart, I thought: "Completely satisfied, I've accepted you."

I held her still, wiping away her tears with my fingers. She said, "I can do it myself." I said, "No, let me." She looked up; there were tears in the corners of my eyes too, and she wiped them away for me. Even after wiping away the tears, she wouldn't let go. I had to give her a kiss now, the courtesy of welcoming a loved one at the airport. But I felt I didn't need to ask her permission, so I lifted her waist, brought her lips to my mouth, and gave her a surprise, wet kiss. She opened her eyes and watched me kiss her, her eyes avoiding my gaze, looking away helplessly. She dared not move, letting me suckle her lips, her breath carrying the licorice scent of pickled fruits from her hometown, until I felt her lips change from cold to warm before releasing them. She lowered her head, wiping away the saliva remaining on her lips with the back of her hand. I immediately took her hand and said, "Come on, hold my hand and follow me. This airport is huge, you don't speak English, don't get lost."

I took her hand, lifted her luggage, and stepped out of the airport. She looked around, occasionally wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand; the feeling of that wet kiss should still linger on her lips. She had never left home before, and the grandeur of a metropolitan airport in America was a great shock to a Chinese woman who had lived in a small town for generations. Her hand, in mine, I gently held. It was a hand that had worked, a hand that had raised me. At first, the hand I held seemed not to belong to her, held blankly in my son's hand. Gradually, it became soft, relaxed, and trustingly intertwined with my fingers, following me step by step.

And on her face was a question mark. What just happened was unstoppable. The series of events—hugging her son, caressing him, and kissing him passionately—needed an explanation. On the way into the city, I began to instill in her the ways of surviving in America, and reassured her that I had everything arranged, and that it was all for her sake…

“Mom, do you know why you came to America?”

“To reunite with you.”

“Of course. But you must remember, and you must understand, that our reason is marriage. The U.S. immigration authorities are very strict; if they find any loopholes, they will arrest you immediately and lock you up.”

“I understand.”

“Then, if someone asks you, ‘Who am I to you?’ how will you answer them?”

She hesitated slightly.

"Your behavior will arouse suspicion. You need to be able to speak without hesitation, for our benefit. Now tell me, who am I?"

"My husband."

"Right."

"What will you tell others about you?"

"Wife."

"You need to get used to addressing me as husband and wife in front of everyone, no matter who they are. Understand? Don't let anyone see through it. The police will arrest you."

"I know."

I repeated these words over and over, making her practice until we arrived home. I opened the car door for her and showed her the newly painted house.

"It looks bigger than in the photos." She looked surprised.

I took her hand; she hadn't expected to hold her hand even after we got home. But her hand was already in my grasp. Holding her hand gave me a strange feeling—intimate, romantic, and self-absorbed. That hand that had carried me through my childhood, now I would hold it and lead her through the gates of love and desire.

"Mom, this house is yours."

"Mine?"

"It's your home, of course it's yours. Once all the formalities are completed, your name will be on the land deed, making you a joint owner. Everything I own is yours."

My words moved her. The house's Western-style furnishings and spacious layout made her feel like she was in a grand garden.

She said, "Such a big house, you live alone?"

"No, it's just the two of us."

"Are all houses in America this big?"

"In America, this isn't considered big, nor is it small."

I showed her around the upstairs, downstairs, and basement garage, showing her every room before finally leading her to our bedroom.

"Mom, this is our bedroom, it's a suite with a huge wardrobe. You can buy lots and lots of shoes and clothes. That's the bathroom. Open the curtains and you can see the mountain view and the garden. Do you like it?"

She looked around, a little surprised. Then, a little awkwardly, I said,

"We're sleeping here? There's only one bed?"

"That's right. I made this bed myself; it's big enough that two people won't feel cramped."

"Are there spare rooms in the house that you rent out? Why…?"

"Don't ask why. There's a reason for everything. It's just the two of us, but we're going to sleep together. Forgot? We came together under the pretext of marriage; sleeping in different beds would raise suspicion. Besides, back in China, our family only had one bed, and what was wrong with that? Don't you want to sleep with me?"

It was a question she couldn't say no to, and my suggestion of sleeping together had a deeper meaning, but she couldn't refuse.

I grabbed her hand, lifted her up, and gently stroked the back of her hand. With a firm tone, I led her to the wardrobe, displaying the treasures I had collected for her.

"Mom, is it okay if I wear these panties? This robe is a matching set." I took out the nice things I had prepared and handed them to her, saying, "You're tired. Take off your dirty clothes, take a shower, and go to bed."

She took the things I had bought for her, stunned, her face full of suspicion, but she didn't dare to say anything.

"They're all Victoria Secret, designer brands. They should fit your figure, and I guarantee they'll be comfortable and close-fitting. Go put them on and come out to see. If the size isn't right, you can exchange them." I stretched out her panties, showed her the tag pinned to the waistband, and insisted with a firm look that she must wear them. I could tell she was quite embarrassed to discuss her underwear with me. But I didn't mince words, acting as if it were normal, and played with the very sexy panties and robe I was going to give her, explaining to her that it was difficult for her to face me. She could only lower her eyes, hiding her embarrassment, and turn to go into the bathroom.

"Isn't there a door?" she stammered in the bathroom.

"Yes. The bathroom door in the master bedroom doesn't need to be closed. Life in America is very casual. You'll have to get used to it."

"Really? What about when I shower and go to the toilet?"

I didn't answer.

"Then don't look."

Of course I would look at her. She was in a corner of the bathroom, nervously taking off her dress, without taking off her bra and panties, and just putting on a robe. I saw it all.

I said,

"Actually, American men don't wear pajamas. They don't wear pajamas in the street, and they don't wear pajamas to sleep."

"What do they wear if not pajamas?" she asked curiously.

"Men usually sleep naked, but I don't. Some women don't wear anything at all, and those who are conservative only wear a robe, like you."

After hearing my words, she quickly took off her panties and put on the brand-new panties I had given her. Then, under the robe, she unhooked her bra. Two nipples protruded from the thin fabric of the robe, making her breasts look even firmer.

She didn't know that no matter how she tried to cover herself, it was always inadequate; hiding her private parts only revealed her kidneys, making it impossible for me to avoid seeing her naked body. She kept her head down, her back to me, unable to escape the gaze sweeping over her entire body. She dared not see her son inspecting her nakedness—her full breasts, her rounded thighs, the triangle between her mons pubis and thighs, the pubic hair covering that area and her vulva… It was her mother's body, fully or partially naked; to see it was a blessing. Afterwards, she had to dress and undress in front of me every day, and I worried that she would lose her shyness if she became accustomed to nudity. In my imagination, even if my mother accepted the title and responsibilities of a wife, even if she bore me children, her routine sexual intercourse would still be the same—coy and shy.

But on the very first day, the first time she entered my room, I was able to let her change without any covering under my gaze, and I even caught a glimpse of her fully naked body. I was satisfied with the feeling of embracing her and caressing her. And I was not disappointed by her nakedness. Never use the fantasies of masturbation as a standard. Your mother is already undressed in your bedroom, her breasts and buttocks gleaming, her figure slender and beautiful. The fantasy has become reality; do you still expect her to have the figure of a naked woman in an attic? Of course, I also plan to sleep with her. But that's for later. I'm not in a hurry; I won't rape my own mother. She must be willing before I can make love. Because I pursue noble love, not fleeting pleasure.

"See the laundry basket? Put the dirty clothes in it. The red brush is yours, and the face towel is on the rack."

While my mother was washing up, I began to undress. When she came out, I was only wearing a vest and underwear, and we met briefly.

She had put on a robe and transformed; I couldn't take my eyes off her—the shape of her breasts, the simple cut of her underwear. It showed off her mature and beautiful figure even more than the nude photos she took in China. The beauty wasn't that she had the curves of those lingerie models in *Metropolitan* magazine—I was looking at those magazines and buying her underwear based on the pictures. The way Mom looked in her nightgown was simply beautiful. She looked down at me, the lace of the nightgown feeling like ants on her skin, making her look unnatural.

"Mom, you look so beautiful. You look more like an American woman now."

"I still prefer wearing pajamas."

"Only old women wear pajamas. Look, there are all sorts of trendy styles in the closet, you can choose for yourself later."

I rinsed my mouth and washed my face, still watching her. She opened the closet, looked around, and then sat upright at one end of the bed. I came out and sat beside her. She subconsciously shifted her body to make way, and I moved closer, placing my hand on her bare shoulder. The thin strap had a small bow. She only showed her shoulders and thighs, but it looked as if she were already naked. When I touched the bow, she shuddered. Was she afraid I would untie the knot and the nightgown would come undone?

"Mom, welcome home. This is your home, our home. Do you like it?" I pressed her shoulders, gently massaging them.

"The house is too big, I'm afraid I'll get lost."

"Actually, no matter how big the house is, we only sleep in one room, one bed. You've already done a great job, even though we've only been in America for less than a day."

Then, I pressed the rocker switch by the bedside to turn off the bedroom lights. I slid my hand down her shoulder, put my arm around her waist, and pulled her closer to me. Her body moved a little closer.

She shivered again.

"I thought you were asleep. You look so preoccupied. Are you not used to it?"

"Maybe a little, I don't know."

"Don't worry about me. We're the only two people closest to each other in the world. Just relax and enjoy yourself now. In America, you can have anything. Whatever you want, I'll buy it for you. Wherever you want to go, I'll take you. I've promised you everything." "

I know you're very good to me, very filial."

"You must rest assured. In America, a son can not support his mother, but a husband cannot abandon his wife; he has to pay support. You're not only my mother, but also my wife in legal status. So you don't need to worry about anything, understand?" "

Actually, I'm worried that a sham marriage is illegal and will burden you."

"Shh! Don't say it's a sham marriage. We're really married. A sham marriage is deceiving the government; if people find out, they'll arrest us and put us in jail. All the procedures are official; you're my legal wife." "

But… that's just for show for the immigration authorities."

"Don't say that. It's all true. It's all fact. Every morning when I wake up, the first thought is: Bin'er and I are married, we are a real couple. Remember, don't give anything away." "

I'm afraid I won't be able to do it."

"Don't worry, it's not too difficult. America is different from China; private life is the most important. Close the door, and whatever you do in your room, no one will question you or interfere. When you're out, I'll be with you; just do as I say." My

mother nodded.

"Mom, it's time to sleep. How about a goodnight kiss?"

"What's that?"

"Americans kiss their loved ones before bed. Mothers kiss their children, husbands kiss their wives, and so on..."

Before she could respond, I tightened my grip around her waist, and she leaned closer, nestled in my arms. Before she could react, our lips were already locked. Her eyes darted around for a moment, then closed.

My kiss wasn't as passionate as the one at the airport, that was a surprise, a reckless one. This was a bedtime kiss, meant to be warm and gentle. If she could feel it, it was the beginning of romance. A light kiss, like a weightless feather brushing her lips, she opened her eyes, thinking it was over, but meeting my tender gaze, she immediately closed them again. "Mom, I've noticed you don't have much experience kissing. With more kisses, you'll gradually understand the difference between each one."

On Mom's body, her bra was removed, revealing a sheer nightgown, making her much softer. She leaned closer. My heart moved inch by inch from her waist upwards, exploring the circumference of her breasts and touching her nipples. The soft mounds of flesh were nestled in my palms, like holding a rare treasure, I couldn't put them down. A woman would be terrified and struggle if her breasts were played with like this. But she didn't react, as if asleep.

She grew heavier in my arms, and I called her name in her ear to see if she was asleep. She didn't answer. My eyelids were heavy, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. I carried her to bed, her bare thighs partially hidden under her nightgown. I tried to lull her to sleep, but I couldn't. I was so excited that I couldn't believe what had happened that day was real. I gazed at my mother's kind face, weathered by time yet still retaining its simplicity and gentleness. I gently caressed her face, her shoulders, her breasts. Then I moved up her legs, down her calves, and her thighs. I reached under her already lifted nightgown and slowly pulled down her panties, inch by inch, until they reached her knees. From that narrow angle, I admired the exit from which I had come into this world. Her plump, sweet labia, her full mons pubis, and her curly hair made my mouth water.

I parted her thighs slightly and inserted a finger. My mother shifted slightly, and I withdrew. I waited for her to adjust her sleeping position so I could admire her buttocks up close. She seemed to know what I wanted and curled up on her side to sleep. Those were the same firm buttocks I'd seen as a child. Like her breasts, they were larger than before. But as I touched them, testing their elasticity, I was confident that if she could be properly cared for and maintained, she could serve me for many more years. These things couldn't be called "feminine treasures." I had no shortage of women and female professors throwing themselves at me, but those were my mother's possessions; she wouldn't easily give them to me. I had to cherish and protect them when I used them in the future.

When I kissed her buttocks, she shifted her body and began to murmur in her sleep. Afraid of waking her, I helped her put her panties back on and lay down beside her, letting her breath wash over my face.

I started to feel dizzy, but I held on, hoping to see my beloved open their eyes and see me.

[The End]

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