Son, fuck me as much as you want, it feels good for Mom!

page views:1 Publication date:2022-09-28

[Son, fuck me as much as you want, it feels good!] My father passed away when I was 11. My mother was only 32 then, still very young. A guy from her school took a liking to my mother. He was quite well-off, six years older than her. He had just been allocated an apartment and had savings. But because I always ignored him, he disliked me. Sometimes when he argued with my mother, he would point at me and yell, "If this brat doesn't behave properly, I'll beat him up!" In the end, my mother didn't agree: "A little hardship is nothing, but I can't stand this kind of treatment! You should leave." I knew my mother was doing it for me. That guy was narrow-minded and spread rumors about my mother everywhere. Later, it spread throughout her school. Not only was she forced to teach the graduating class, but her promotion was also ruined. My mother didn't say anything about those gossips. But she must have been in great pain inside. At that time, I only half understood, but I knew she was doing it for me. Actually, it was all because my mother was a beautiful woman. And she was universally acknowledged as beautiful. She often said that aesthetic ability determines taste, and taste determines temperament. I think what she didn't say was: A certain aura makes a person stand out. It's a feeling unique to children that age—a kind of budding instinct. This budding instinct usually leads to a teenager's first encounter with the opposite sex. And I was no exception at that age. "Ping'er, if you don't understand something, just ask your mother," my mother often said to me. Perhaps she knew that I was very introverted after losing my father. She was afraid that I would keep things bottled up inside and develop a distorted view of life. "What if you get angry?" I asked her. She smiled: "Mom won't really get angry with her son." Indeed. My mother never really got angry with me. Although some of her questions seem absurd and silly now, she still gave reasonable explanations. Gradually, I became more and more interested in matters between men and women. The topics I talked about with my mother also gradually increased. "Mom, how did I come to be?" I pressed on: I mean, how did I get into Mom's belly in the first place? And how did I come out? "Actually, back then I vaguely knew a little about things between men and women. I asked my mother about it not only out of curiosity, but also because I wanted to see her embarrassed. I found it a bit exciting. She was silent for a moment, then her eyes lit up and she said, 'Oh, I know about that. But it'll take a long time to explain. You don't want to go hungry, do you? Okay, help me pick some vegetables first, and I'll tell you after dinner.' My mother was occasionally a little cunning. Though not often, it came in crucial moments. She told me that sometimes students would ask questions outside the curriculum, questions even the teacher didn't know the answers to. In such cases, she could choose to ignore them. Other teachers always liked to confidently say, 'I don't teach what's not in the syllabus.' But my mother didn't like to refuse her child's thirst for knowledge: 'It's my responsibility, how can I evade it with a single sentence?' But she also couldn't make herself too difficult, otherwise the class wouldn't be able to continue. At this point, she would always say gently, 'Student, class time is limited, we still have content to cover. We can't let this affect the other students. How about this, you can come to my office during afternoon self-study, and I'll explain it to you. Okay?'" "A few reasonable words resolved the awkward situation. Afterwards, she had time to prepare. She used this tactic on me as well. Before bed, when I pressed her for answers again, my mother turned over, as if she had already thought it through: 'Ping'er, you were originally in Mommy's tummy. Back then, you were just a cell, very, very small, called an egg. Later, Daddy's sperm combined with Mommy's egg, becoming an embryo. After ten months, the embryo grew, and after birth, you were born as a baby.' My mother's answer was so cunning; I hadn't achieved my goal, so I wasn't about to give up: 'Mommy, how did Daddy's sperm get into your tummy?' My mother frowned, but then quickly regained her composure. She probably anticipated her precious son's probing questions. 'Swimming!' she said vividly. 'Sperm are like tadpoles; they swim in by themselves.'" "She turned to the bed, pulled the blanket over herself, leaving me exposed. It seemed she meant it was time to go back to her room. I persisted, then snuggled under the covers and tugged at her shoulder: 'Where do sperm swim in from? Can I see?' My mother blushed, turning to stare at me. I knew she was incredibly embarrassed. But being a teacher, she quickly regained her composure: 'Ping'er, I can't show you there. It's an adult's privacy. You'll know when you grow up.' I said 'Oh,' and asked, 'Then what is it? If you won't let me see, can't you at least tell me?' My mother glared at me, saying irritably, 'The place where you pee!' I achieved my goal; even my mother has her limits, haha. I pretended not to understand and continued, 'Do I have sperm? Where are they?' My mother smiled and said, 'You're too young, you don't have any yet. I'll tell you when you're older, okay?'" "She glanced at her watch and said to me, 'Ping'er, it's past 10 o'clock. You should go back to your room and sleep. Otherwise, you won't be able to get up tomorrow.' I hummed in agreement, nodded, and stood up but didn't move. 'Mom, I have one last question. Can you tell me?' My mother tilted her head and smiled. 'Okay, that's the last one. After you finish, you should go to sleep.' I scratched my head and asked, 'You said I grew inside you and then came out. Where did I come out from?' I thought this question would keep my mother up all night, but instead, she chuckled, lifted the covers, sat up, and said, 'Have you heard of a cesarean section? It's when they cut open Mom's belly and take you out. Look, there's still a scar.' As she spoke, she turned on the bedside lamp, lifted her pajamas, and showed me a scar more than an inch long on her lower abdomen. 'Look, it's right here. It's quite long, isn't it? Mom carried you for so long and had to go through a C-section to have you. It wasn't easy.'" "Oh my god! I was so moved when I heard that. My eyes welled up with tears: 'Mom…' My voice was already trembling with sobs. Sigh, I never expected Mom to be so capable, so adept at dealing with her naughty son. It turns out this trick was already in her 'teaching syllabus.' Mom pulled me close, hugged me tightly, and kissed me on the cheek. Then she wiped away my tears: 'Okay, good boy, don't cry, go back to sleep. It's getting late.'" "My mother was very patient with me. Whether it was current events, principles of conduct, everyday life tips, or even questions about sex, she always handled them well. No matter what I asked, she always gave reasonable and well-founded answers. She would occasionally offer her advice. Because we could chat freely, I found it very enjoyable at the time. Only later did I realize that she was not only an excellent teacher, but also a mother who could view her child with equanimity. She knew how to say what should and shouldn't be said, and how to say it appropriately. She satisfied my curiosity without conveying the wrong information. At that time, I only vaguely understood the feelings between men and women. Seeing boys and girls on the street arm in arm, so affectionate, I imitated them, hugging my mother like that. Like any mother who spoils her child, she wasn't angry; on the contrary, she seemed to enjoy me whispering sweet nothings to her face like that. Perhaps my mother had been too lonely these past two years. Back then, she never found chatting with me, her little brat, annoying. But she always had to go to school or work early the next day and couldn't stay up too late. Yet, it seemed like there was still more to say." Winter break has finally arrived. After finishing up the end-of-semester chores, my mother is also on vacation. Now that I can sleep in a little later, we can talk about anything. We chat about everything under the sun—her colleagues, my classmates, all sorts of things—and talk about many interesting things. Sometimes we chat so late that I sleep with her. My mother wears pajamas. You know, those long nightgowns with straps. I don't know if other women do this, but she probably finds them uncomfortable, so she always takes off her bra before going to sleep. When I'm nestled in my mother's arms, I often see two small protrusions on her chest, which really arouses me. Those round mounds have always attracted me since I was little. But before, I just rested my head there. I've never felt like this before, wanting to touch them. At first, it was a tentative touch; they were very soft, like jelly. Seeing that my mother didn't respond, I became much bolder. When she fell asleep, I started gently kneading them. Later, I simply slipped my hand inside her nightgown from the neckline. "Oh, what are you doing! Your hands are so cold." "My mother woke up and caught me red-handed. 'Why aren't you asleep? What are you scribbling about?' My mother was a little annoyed and pulled my hand away: 'Go to sleep now, or what time will you get up tomorrow?' My mother seemed only annoyed by my naughtiness and didn't think anything of it. My heart skipped a beat, and I said coquettishly, 'Mommy, I want you to hold me while I sleep, okay?' I put my other hand on her chest and buried my face in her arms. She said helplessly, 'How old are you? Still so clingy. You don't act like a big kid at all. What, do you still want to nurse?' She slapped my bottom. 'I want to! I want to!' I looked up at my mother and licked my lips. She chuckled, annoyed. She shook her head helplessly and flicked my forehead with her index finger: 'Wanting to nurse is useless, Mommy doesn't have any milk.'" "When I was little, my mother didn't mind me touching her breasts. Before I was six, even when others were around, I would often reach inside her clothes and touch them. She would just look at me and smile, without getting angry. At that time, my father said she spoiled me too much. Maybe so, mothers always tend to pamper their sons. Many years later, I understand a bit about matters between men and women. When I touch there again, my mindset has changed quite a bit. But my mother still seems to treat me like a child, occasionally teasing me.""Ping'er, you're so old and you still sleep with your mother. Aren't you afraid people will laugh at you?" My mother stared at me with a half-smile. "I'm not afraid. Anyway, no one else sees," I said. My mother's breasts were full and slightly sagging. Gently squeezing them, I could feel something moving inside. My mother was probably a little uncomfortable from my squeezing, so she pressed my hand down and said, "Just because they can't see doesn't mean they can't see. Isn't that just burying your head in the sand?" "No, no!" I noticed my mother's mistake: "Bullying your head in the sand means pretending not to know when someone finds you. But no one has found out yet. Mom, you used the wrong words." While she was distracted, I lifted her nightgown up a little and grasped her other breast. I could feel that her nipple had swelled up quite a bit and was hard and erect. My mother blushed slightly, thought for a moment, nodded, and said, "Okay, you're quite good at choosing words. I mean, what if people find out? What will you do?" I said, "So what if people find out? Is it wrong to be close to my mother? Those who forget their mothers after getting married are the ones who are wrong!" As I spoke, I took one of her breasts, opened my mouth, and suckled on her nipple. My mother hummed a few times, stroked my hair, and her breathing became a little heavy. After a while, she said, "It's good that you think that way. But that's not the same. You'll get married sooner or later..." She shook her head and said, "I'm getting off-topic. Let me ask you: 'You're so old and still sleeping with your mother and still breastfeeding...aren't you ashamed?'" A thought struck me: "Why does my mother always ask these questions? Is she also wondering why she can't sleep with me?" It's true, it seems like all my classmates sleep alone. There are several classmates like me who only live with their mothers, but they all sleep in their own beds. Why is that? I was 12 years old that year. Regarding sex, I was probably more ignorant and naive than an 8 or 9-year-old child today. For a few days, my mother would often pull down my pants to look, but she no longer touched me with her hands. She made me retract my foreskin and feel if the swollen area hurt. It wasn't until a few days later that it was completely healed. Throughout this whole ordeal, my mother never said anything to me. But her attitude towards me changed somewhat afterward. Perhaps through this incident, she realized I had grown up, that I was a little man who couldn't be ignored. "From now on, you should sleep by yourself," my mother finally pushed my hand away. Perhaps because she had discovered that I could ejaculate, she wouldn't let me touch her breasts while sleeping. "My son is grown up now, he can't always sleep with his mother, understand?" she said. I was a little sad: "Mom, why can't my son sleep with me?" My mother hesitated, staring at the ceiling, and said, "It's because...we're afraid of doing 'that'." I asked again, "What's 'that'?" My mother pouted and said helplessly, "Some boys do 'that' with their mothers when they sleep with them...it's like they're taking advantage of their mothers...you'll understand when you get older. So boys can't sleep with their mothers." "Mom, I'm your child. I only want to be good to you. How could I take advantage of you?" I felt a little wronged. At that moment, I thought about the relationship between men and women and suddenly understood: a mother is a woman, and a son is a man. A mother and son can also have 'that' with men and women, just like a father and mother might. But a mother and son definitely can't have 'that' with each other. Thinking about this, I nodded and said, "I understand. Then we just won't do anything bad. Mom, I don't quite understand. We'll do what we can. Tell me what we can't do. Okay?" As I spoke, I touched her breast again, feeling her nipples slowly swelling. My mother hummed in agreement, her face turning red again. She nodded and said, "We won't do anything bad. That's fine." I suddenly felt a little tempted, and hugged my mother's neck, knowingly asking, "Does hugging Mom like this count as 'something bad'?" My mother laughed and said, "No! If it were me, I would have hit you already." I chuckled inwardly and asked, "Then how about this?" I hugged her even tighter and kissed her on the cheek. My mother said, "It shouldn't count, right?" I said, "If it does, it does; if it doesn't, it doesn't. What does 'should' mean?" My mother looked at me, shook her head helplessly, and said, "Okay, it doesn't count." I then straddled her and asked, "Then how about this?" My mother sighed, "It doesn't count." I pressed myself against her, cupping her breasts in my hands, and rubbed against her, saying, "How about this?" For some reason, this action made me feel suddenly hot, a strange sensation washing over me. My mother frowned and said, "This isn't good. Get up..." She pushed me aside. But then a fire suddenly ignited within me, an impulse emboldening me to do something unexpected: I pressed her shoulder and kissed her lips. My mother was startled, afraid she would push me away. She was strong, and with a forceful struggle, I fell to the ground, hitting my head on the cabinet. My mother panicked, worried I was hurt. "Ping'er, where did you hurt yourself?" She came over to help me up, stroking my head, her expression anxious. I was burning with desire, and I embraced my mother, pushing her down onto the bed. This way, she couldn't push me away anymore. In desperation, she reached out to hit me, but I endured the pain and continued kissing her, refusing to get up. Perhaps afraid of hurting me, she only hit me twice before softening her grip. I seized the opportunity to grab her wrist and pin her to the bed, then continued kissing her. After kissing for a while, I suddenly felt a throbbing in my lower abdomen, followed by a wetness in my underwear. I felt a bit lost, unsure of what to do next. And that was it. I looked up at my mother. She was staring at me too. "Mom, is this how it is?" She paused, then said with a grin, "What?" I released her hand, touched my head, and said with a grin, "Is this what you meant by 'bad things'?" My mother was taken aback at first, then burst out laughing. She turned her head to the side, her face serious, and said, "No, it's not. But it's already a little bad. You shouldn't have done this. You know?" I could see that her initial tension and fear had been replaced by helplessness and amusement; I wondered if she had any other reaction. She pushed me away and crawled back into bed. I tried to get in, but my mother kicked me out: "Disobedience! You're punished by sleeping in your room tonight." She realized how strange that sounded and couldn't help but laugh. She casually ran her hand over my thigh and felt something wet. Lifting the blanket, she saw a wet patch on the front of my underwear. Pulling down the waistband, she saw my semen and quickly tore off some tissues to wipe it off. Afraid I'd get cold, she slept in her bed that night. "Take off your underwear. Tear off some more tissues to clean yourself up," my mother said, worried I'd catch a cold sleeping naked. Compared to the chill of my room, it was much warmer to cuddle with my mother. From then on, my mother was trapped in her own web. Every winter vacation after that, my mother and I would sleep together. I would always cuddle her tightly, and she would have to cuddle me back. Because this didn't count as "something bad." Who told her not to explain what "something bad" actually meant? In the morning, I would open my eyes to see my mother's face. I couldn't resist giving her a quick kiss, and my mother woke up. "What are you doing, kissing me like that? Get up!" My mother was a little annoyed and pushed me up. "Mom, I want to lie down a little longer." My mother also wanted to lie down a little longer, so she hummed in agreement and let me hug her. I put one leg around my mother's waist and hugged her even tighter. But this meant that my erect penis was pressing against my mother's lower abdomen. My mother touched it, realized what she was holding, and quickly pushed me away. She opened the drawer by the bedside and took out a pair of her underwear, stuffing them into my hand. "You, shameless thing, aren't you?" She slapped my butt. But there was a smile on her lips: "Put your underwear on. Oh, you've got pubic hair? Heh, put it on, it looks so ugly like this. You're all grown up now." She noticed the change at the base of my penis. I laughed as I took the underwear and put it on, but my penis was swollen and it was very uncomfortable. "Mom, your underwear is too small, my penis is too big, it's so tight." My mother chuckled and said, "Shameless. You're so young and already bragging. Even your dad can wear this, and you..." She stopped abruptly, probably realizing something was wrong. I knew that if I touched her breasts, she would become more talkative, so I grasped one and gently twisted it. "Oh," my mother's mouth opened slightly, and she made a sound, wrapping her arms around me. Seeing that my mother seemed a little hesitant, I asked, "Mom, is my dad's penis much bigger than mine?" My mother blushed and hummed in agreement. "How much bigger?" I couldn't help but ask. "Much bigger," my mother's answer was too simple, and I wasn't satisfied. I circled her breasts with both hands and whispered in her ear, "How much bigger?" Her breathing was a little heavy, and she didn't answer me. I rolled over and pressed myself against her like last time. Seeing that she didn't push me away with her eyes closed, I took my penis out of my underwear. I pulled her hand to hold it: "Mom, is it half as long as mine?" This time, my mother didn't let go, just held it like that: "No," she said, squeezing it. I asked again: "Is it half as thick?" As I spoke, I pushed up her nightgown, revealing her breasts. My mother opened her eyes, saw me staring at her chest, and reached out to cover them. Then she closed her eyes again. I felt her breathing become more rapid, so I pried her hands open and pulled her hands to hold my penis. "How thick?" I asked her, while simultaneously holding my mother's two breasts with both hands. She didn't resist anymore, breathing heavily with her eyes closed: "...a little thicker." She was still holding my penis in her hands. I felt very comfortable, those two mounds were as soft as jelly. The nipples were large, hard in my mouth. I straddled my mother's waist, sucking on her breasts. And so it went on for a while.Ten minutes. She started moving my penis back and forth in her hand. The pleasure enveloped me, and I couldn't help but want to shout, "Ah!" With a loud cry, I ejaculated again. My penis throbbed a dozen times, and I felt an unprecedented sense of pleasure. "Get off," she said, slapping my buttocks. She tore off some paper for me and sat up to clean herself. Semen sprayed onto my mother's lower abdomen, soaking the front of her underwear. She took off her underwear, wiped herself with it for a while, then crumpled it into a ball and threw it on my dirty underwear on the bedside table. That was the first time I had ever seen a woman's genitals. There was indeed no penis, only a dark tuft of hair. Because she was facing away from me, I couldn't see anything further down. I remembered her saying, "You can't look at a woman's private parts," so I wanted to take a closer look. But by then, she had already put on a clean pair of underwear and crawled back into bed. "Oh dear, my son has grown up. I'm getting old too," my mother said, stroking my head. "Mom, you're not old at all. I heard a lot of students at school like you." My mother laughed and whispered in my ear, "Does it feel good?" I nodded, stroking her breasts, and asked, "Mom, what's wrong with you? It feels so good." My mother smiled, gently pushed my hand away, and took off her nightgown from her head. She touched my penis and told me to hold it in my hand, saying, "Hold it yourself, one in front and one behind, like this. It feels better than touching the front with your hand." I stroked her bare breasts with one hand and held my own penis with the other, feeling a little lightheaded. She laughed, tucked her semi-erect penis back into her underwear, and said, "You can't do this all the time, it's not good for your health. Once a week at most. Okay?" Obviously, my actual needs at that age far exceeded my mother's demands. Being intimate every day made my mother feel uncomfortable. She wanted me to do it myself, but I always said it was uncomfortable. Sometimes when we were watching TV, I would take it out and let her hold it. I would also put my hand inside her clothes and touch her breasts. Sometimes I would deliberately push her down on the sofa until I came. In the days that followed, the need for "rubbing" increased and became more frequent. By the second year of junior high, it had become once every two days. That year, besides being intimate with my mother in bed, I also watched porn for the first time at a classmate's house. Strictly speaking, it was only a Category III film. It had a plot, but no nudity. But it still excited me greatly. I knew what it was like for men and women to have sex, but I felt even more mysterious about a woman's private parts. I tried touching her while she was asleep. Touching the outside felt like a soft piece of flesh, with a tuft of hard hair. But touching inside was difficult. Her underwear was tightly closed. It was hard to take it off without waking her. Sometimes, when my mother rubbed my genitals, I would deliberately suck on her breasts. This way, my penis would be close to her lower body, and I could ejaculate all my semen onto her underwear. Sometimes, after ejaculating in the middle of the night, she was too lazy to get up and change her underwear, so she would just take it off and leave it aside before going back to sleep. This gave me the opportunity to touch her tender vulva. "Mom, why can't I look at where you pee, but you can touch mine?" I asked her again as soon as I started touching her. My mother gently moved her hand, turning to the side to adjust her position: "From underneath, don't tear the neckline." She didn't answer, but took my hand and stroked her breasts under her clothes. "Mom, I'm asking you. Why?" My mother thought for a moment and said: "Because you're still young, you don't know enough about sex. When you grow up, you'll understand more things, then you can look. But not at me, but at someone you like." I pinched her nipple while shaking my head: "I can learn if I don't understand, why can't I look? Besides, I like my mom too." My mother laughed: "Don't pretend. You know what I mean by 'like'. It means you can look at your girlfriend's, but you can't look at mine. I'm your mother. You have to respect me. Looking is disrespectful. Ah... oh..." Maybe it was because I pinched her nipple too hard... I hit her too hard, and she slapped me. I could only gently rub her: "Mom, why is it disrespectful of me to look? That doesn't make sense. I respect you in my heart, and I still respect you even after seeing it. Didn't you say that proof requires reason and evidence? This has no evidence." My mother nodded and gently stroked my penis a few times: "Actually, I shouldn't do these things for you. It's just that you're still young, so it's not a big deal. When you get older, it won't be okay. Otherwise, you'll go astray. Do you understand?" "Mom, actually, I've already seen your private parts." My mother's hand was stroking my penis faster and faster, and I couldn't help but say it. "What?" My mother was stunned. I held my mother's hand and continued stroking her, kissed her cheek, and said: "Sometimes you don't wear underwear. I saw it this morning. Two pieces of flesh, and if you pull them apart, there are two more pieces inside, all red. You see, I didn't become bad after seeing it. I used to always wonder what it looked like. After seeing it, I won't have these wild thoughts anymore." My mother lowered her head and silently rubbed my penis. I was aroused by her caresses and couldn't help but stroke her thighs. "Mom, let me touch you." I slipped my hand under her skirt and touched her inner thigh. My mother grabbed my hand but didn't say anything. I felt like I was in a movie, kneading her breasts and kissing her lips. I heard my mother make a soft "hmm" sound, and I felt a rush of heat to my head. I pushed her down onto the sofa and pressed myself against her. "Promise me you won't do 'that'!" My mother stared at me and said, word by word. I nodded. I knew she meant sex: "I promise I won't. Mom, I promise you." My mother's body went limp, and she released me. My hand touched her crotch and felt her palm was wet. She didn't resist anymore, wrapped her arms around my neck, and her breathing became rapid. I kissed my mother wildly, one hand caressing her breasts, the other slipping into her panties and touching her tender vulva. Beneath the stiff pubic hair was a patch of warm, wet flesh. After a few strokes, my mother began to breathe heavily. I straightened up and lifted her skirt. My mother leaned against the back of the sofa, opened her eyes and looked at me, her gaze somewhat unfocused. I lifted her thighs and pulled down her panties. She lifted her legs, letting me rip off her panties, and closed her eyes again. I couldn't wait to see what she looked like down there, so I pushed her legs apart, revealing the area covered in dark hair. I squatted down so I could see her genitals very closely. At the base of her snow-white thighs, two thick labia majora sandwiched a brownish fleshy piece. I parted the labia, revealing a scarlet interior. The labia were covered in mucus, stretching out glistening strands as they separated. Then, droplets of fluid began to flow from the small pit beneath the labia. I reached out to touch that pit, and my mother moved. The labia contracted, and the pit became a deep, fleshy opening. Above the labia, a pink clitoris peeked out. I inserted my finger into my mother's vagina, feeling a violent contraction around it, gripping my finger tightly. Then I released it. In school physiology class, I knew that what I was touching was a woman's vagina. My mother opened her eyes, saw that it was just my finger, and then closed them again. She gripped the sofa armrest, her face showing discomfort. I couldn't take it anymore. I got up, took off my pants, and, imitating what I'd seen in videos, lifted my mother's legs, straddled her, and pressed her down on the sofa, holding my penis as I tried to insert it into her vagina. "No, no—" My mother sensed my intention and pushed me away violently. As my penis touched her labia, she released her grip. She held onto my shoulders and closed her eyes. After a few shallow thrusts in and out of her vagina, the head of my penis slid out and ejaculated onto her lower abdomen. "Who taught you to do this?" my mother asked. "No one taught me, I figured it out myself," I said, afraid to admit I'd watched porn. My mother nodded and said, "Don't do that again. That's what's wrong. Remember?" I said, "Oh, I know." After that, my relationship with my mother changed a bit. Although we still didn't actually penetrate, everything was more open. We touched each other, hugged and kissed. Except for her period, my mother would take off her underwear before going to bed. Sometimes, when I made her want to, she would masturbate by inserting her fingers into her vagina. But as soon as I mounted her, she would push me away: "You can't do that. It's not good." She always said that, but never said what was wrong with it. "Why is it not good? Mom, tell me?" My mother looked at me, her gaze gradually softening: "If Mom does this with you, things will get messed up. What if we get pregnant?" But how could a pale warning resist the strong curiosity and wild physical needs of a teenager? One summer in my second year of junior high. At night, my mother and I were naked and intimate as usual. I lay on top of her, licking her genitals and sucking on her breasts. Two fingers moved rapidly in and out of her vagina, making her feel incredibly aroused. She held my head, moaning "Ahhhhhh!" In the moonlight, I saw her buttocks glistening with vaginal fluid. Her legs were spread open, her labia twitching, the opening appearing and disappearing, making me unable to resist any longer. I inserted my penis into her vagina. Entering my mother felt hot and comfortable. I moved on top of her a few times before she realized it was my penis inside. Her hands pushed against my shoulders, but then went limp. "Oh...""Oh...be gentle..." With my thrusts, Mom groaned for a while. She hugged me and said, "No...oh...don't be too hasty...slow down..." After a dozen more thrusts, I ejaculated. Afterwards, Mom said that when she first helped me masturbate, she thought this day would come, but she just didn't want to face it. Mom said I was really a troublemaker, making her squat in the bathroom for half a day. I ejaculated inside, and it wasn't a safe period, so she was afraid something would happen. She had to squat and let the semen flow out. Fortunately, she got her period again later. "Serve your dad first, then serve you. I don't know what I owed your Li family in my past life." Although she said that, Mom still enjoyed having sex with me. She bought a lot of condoms and taught me how to use them. She also told me to stop for a while when I was about to ejaculate so I could "play a little longer." After school started, we mainly did it in the morning. Often, Mom would have me lift her legs and put them on her shoulders, saying, "Hurry up, my little darling." "I'm going to be late for school... Ah... Oh... Oh... Hurry up and fuck me..." My mother always gave in when I wanted it. I especially liked to put my penis in her vagina when she was wearing a neat suit. I knew her vagina would be itchy all day, and she would come home in her underwear and walk around in front of me. My mother didn't allow me to swear. "Fuck" and "penis" were swear words in her eyes. But I liked to say them, deliberately teasing her. Maybe it was a rebellious mentality. After hearing it so many times, she would sometimes unconsciously say it out loud: "Hurry up and eat, I'll fuck you later, hey... ah..." Every time I corrected her: "You can't call it fucking, you have to call it intercourse," my mother would glare at me. But she would soon be unable to hold back and continue moaning with her eyes closed. The first time I was penetrated from behind was in the third year of junior high school. My mother was surprised that time. She said my father had never done this before. I said, "Haven't you watched porn?" She asked me back: "When did you watch it?" "So I confessed. That was the first time we watched porn together. My mother was mesmerized. I asked her how it felt, and she just smiled foolishly. I teased her, 'If you don't like it, I'll turn it off?' To my surprise, she grabbed the remote control with one hand and my penis with the other. Both hands were hard. After that, my mother often imitated what she saw in porn while we watched. That's how her lustful nature gradually emerged. I pushed my mother down on the bed and thrust my penis into her. She said my penis was now as big as my dad's. I was very happy, and my lower abdomen was covered in hair. I finally looked like an adult." "Mom, do you and Dad play together a lot?" My mother opened her eyes and shook her head: "Not much." "Is that so?" I was a little smug. "Then I fuck Dad a lot?" My mother pinched me: "Of course it's you, you little devil who swears, who torments me every day. Your dad and I used to only do it once a week." "Then I must be the man who fucks you the most, right? I roughly counted, I've fucked you two or three hundred times." Hehe! "Looking at the woman beneath me, my mother, I felt quite smug..."

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Son, fuck me as much as you want, it feels good for Mom!

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