My love

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(I)

My father was rugged in appearance and meticulous in his work. He was a hardworking laborer, accustomed to working under the scorching sun for long periods, with dark skin and well-developed muscles. He was tall and thin, and took everything he did seriously. He was also strict, but not without his endearing qualities.

My mother was the complete opposite of my father. She was petite, gentle, with brown hair and brown eyes, and a very traditional housewife. We children inherited her good qualities, also having brown hair and brown eyes. My mother was witty but somewhat casual, completely different from my father's straightforward personality.

Their sex life was always harmonious. In the first three years of their marriage, my mother gave birth to three children. If my father hadn't left for a period of time, I would definitely have more siblings than I do now.

My earliest memory of my mother is from an innocent family game I played as a child.

I was born lively and active. Even when I was two years old and still babbling, I could already walk around everywhere and was curious about everything I encountered.

One day, although it was broad daylight, my parents hid in their room. I wanted to play with them, so I pushed open my parents' bedroom door (none of the rooms in my house are locked) and went in. I saw my mother lying on the bed, her pajamas slipping off her shoulders, revealing two swollen lumps on her chest.

That day, my father taught me a new word—breast. But until I was ten, the only thing I associated with that word was fried chicken. My mother's breasts were the most beautiful in the world, large, firm, and perky, without sagging. The nipples were cherry red, surrounded by areolas the size of silver coins.

At that moment, my father was suckling on my mother's breasts. He let me climb onto the bed, and I curiously touched and gently patted them, discovering that my mother enjoyed it. My father and I kept in sync; he would first lower his head and suckle on my mother's breasts for a while, then leave, and I would touch and pat them, while my mother moaned happily. Later, I playfully slapped my mother's snow-white breasts hard, and although it hurt her, they both laughed and seemed very happy.

There was only one thing that puzzled me: Dad never let me suckle Mom's full breasts like he did, even though I remembered doing so a year ago. I stubbornly climbed next to Mom, wanting to suckle her other breast, but the game was over; Dad kicked me off the bed, and they continued their amusing game.

Unwilling to accept defeat, for the next twenty years I tried every possible way to get close to Mom's breasts. Like many attempts in life, my efforts had their successes and failures.

In fact, my next success came a year later.

That's when Dad started drinking heavily and his temper became terrible. He would explode at any moment, not just at us, but at everyone in the world, especially the local police. It was a family tradition; his four older brothers were all like that. The five of them would often go to the pub together, drink heavily, and then get into fights. If they couldn't find anyone else, they would fight until the bartender called the police.

Ultimately, Dad paid the price, serving two years in prison for assault while drunk, leaving Mom and us children to struggle.

We soon discovered that Mom hated sleeping alone, so my two sisters and I took turns sleeping with her. Don't get me wrong, there's absolutely nothing erotic about this. Mom wasn't a pervert; she just loved the warm, comfortable feeling of holding someone, whether it was a man, a woman, a boy, or a girl. She just didn't want to sleep alone.

I didn't mind at all. Kids, like kittens and puppies, who wouldn't want to lie comfortably in their mother's warm embrace, listening to her hum lullabies to lull them to sleep? But on the other hand, because Mom liked to wear see-through nightgowns, I could see her beautiful, full breasts quite clearly. Of course, I was too young to talk about sex at that age; it was just my natural love—a child's deep attachment to their mother.

However, when it was my sisters' turn to sleep with Mom, I was neglected for several weeks. Mom said she was tired of waking up every time because I was sucking on her breasts. Usually, Mom's pajamas covered her completely, but occasionally I would find a way to pull them open, exposing her bare breasts, and then suckle them vigorously, just like Dad did.

When I didn't sleep with Mom, I usually slept with my other sister, who hadn't had her turn yet. But to me, there was nothing special; they were both younger than me, their breasts not yet developed. In my mind, they were just two little ones. The only difference between us was that they squatted to use the toilet, and they didn't have to fix their hair as often as I did.

A few times, none of the three of us had to sleep with Mom; she would bring a few men home, staying for a night or a week, who knows. After all, Mom was still young and healthy; she always said that if Dad didn't know, he wouldn't have been hurt. That was just her way of having fun; those guys were just automatic toys in Mom's eyes, destined to leave once Mom's desires were satisfied.

When I was five, Dad was released from prison, and that's when our family's life truly began to change.

My father seemed like a different person. He became religious, more cautious, and even found a good job. Our family's life gradually improved.

I continued to sleep with my two younger sisters until I was ten. We each slept in our own beds, but I felt a sense of loss after we separated.

I had outgrown my childhood of disliking girls and entered puberty with rapidly escalating sexual urges. To make matters worse, I inherited my parents' strong sexual desires.

With my father's return, my longing for my mother's breasts remained only a memory, with my father continuing to fulfill his obligations. My father liked to read a magazine called "Men's Magazine," which he hid under his pillow, but I found it. Whenever they weren't in the room, I would sneak in to admire the women in the magazine; it was my earliest sexual awakening publication. Of

course, magazines like Playboy and Penthouse today would probably disdain its content. The pictures were black and white, and the girls in the pictures always covered their nipples with their hands, arms, or something like a fence. In my memory, women's breasts seemed to have two pointed bumps on them, as if they were specifically designed to fill a man's mouth. Also, women's legs in pictures were always together; what were they trying to hide?

When I was nine, a cousin showed me this secret. On the way back from hunting rabbits, he talked at length about the mysteries of the female body and why men liked to stare at women. I learned two new words—vagina and intercourse. He told me that women don't have a penis between their legs, but there's a slit called a "vagina," and men can put their penis into this slit; that's called "intercourse." He also told me that when men and women are thirty, they can have a baby through intercourse.

Then I proudly shared this knowledge with the neighborhood kids, acting like a nine-year-old sex guru. As a result, my sister and the older sister of my best friend across the street were moved and wanted to have so-called "intercourse" with me. I liked the older sister across the street the most; she was twelve and her breasts had already started developing.

Later, all the kids in our neighborhood came to play this game. Of all the girls, only my younger sister wouldn't let me touch her vulva. I felt this was very unfair because the girls I played with also had brothers, and they could play with their vulvas and small breasts. Why couldn't I touch my sister?

I said we were just playing because my cousin hadn't described in detail how men "had sex" when they pulled down a woman's underwear.

We were just playing a game.

A group of us boys would chase after girls, grabbing one and pulling down her panties, spreading her thighs, and prying open her hairless labia to see the little hole we all wanted to enter, though all the holes were small. My cousin never mentioned the hymen or that a woman's vagina could stretch, so we were content with rubbing our penises back and forth on her labia, considering it "intercourse," and the girls obviously enjoyed it. At these times, I felt a surge of pride, thinking I was doing something grown-up.

I especially loved smelling or licking girls' vulvas; I loved the smell. My cousin never told me this, and I guess it was just my nature. When I licked girls' vulvas, they always did something strange, but it never made me stop.

However, this didn't last long. Six months later, we moved, and my early "sexual life" ended in a sense.

We seemed to never stay in one place for long, which meant I didn't have enough time to convince the neighbor girls to take off their panties for me, which frustrated me. But worse, my dad stopped buying teen magazines.

As time went by, I reached the age of nocturnal emission, and I was surprised to find that my penis was getting bigger and harder. I learned more words, such as penis, vagina, and anus. I often fought with my younger siblings and, like other older boys, enjoyed bullying boys younger than me. I learned a lot from these fights, but Dad always sided with my younger siblings, so I could only rely on Mom.

Later, our family finally settled in California, and Dad and Mom bought a small house. Due to age and taboos, the boys and girls lived separately. I lived with my two younger brothers, my two younger sisters had smaller rooms, and Dad and Mom had the largest bedroom with a big bed.

At this point, I need to clarify something: in the seven years after Dad was released from prison, they still loved each other so deeply. The intensity of their love sometimes terrified me, but it also inspired me that when you find someone you truly love, happiness can be eternal. Dad was lucky; he found Mom, and I was happy for them.

Of course, I was still infatuated with Mom's breasts, but only in a literal sense.

My mother's love for my father was as deep as his love for her, but with one difference: my mother had a penchant for flaunting her charms, and I became her primary victim. My mother liked to start wearing pajamas at dusk, and she preferred transparent, revealing, low-cut clothing. When she sat down to read the newspaper or watch TV, her pajamas would fall to her chest, and I could even see her erect nipples. I would often walk over and look down at her protruding breasts and cherry-red nipples—it was my childhood dream. I desperately wanted to reach out and touch them, but that was my father's prerogative, not mine.

When I was fifteen, the situation worsened. My mother often walked around the room at night in her pajamas, sometimes even less dressed than in bed. Several times, I would run into her on my way to the bathroom or to get a drink of water in the middle of the night. She wore a very narrow, short slip (transparent, of course), barely covering her armpits, just enough to envelop her firm, full breasts, extending down to just below the pubic area, barely concealing her slightly protruding vulva. But as she moved, the slip swayed, and I could clearly see the ripples of her large breasts and the dark, curly pubic hair between her legs.

I began to wonder if my mother had any interest in me "that kind of thing." Of course, by then I already knew the meaning of "incest," and I knew it was against common sense and condemned by society, but I didn't care. I started trying to seduce my mother, but she seemed to find my efforts merely amusing.

When I turned sixteen, my father lost his job, and our family's financial situation suddenly became dire. When things got even worse, my father had to consider going out to work.

Later, he found a construction job on the West Coast, which at least guaranteed him a salary for a year. To keep our family afloat, my father accepted the job, which meant he had to be away from home for a considerable period of time.

Before he left, he held my hand and said, "Now I'm the head of this family. I should take responsibility for taking care of Mom and my younger siblings because I'm all grown up now."

It was just a father's parting words to his son, nothing particularly significant. He often said the same thing to me before, because I was the eldest son.

I agreed, reassuring my father, but my attention shifted to my mother.

Why did my mother look at me with such a strange expression when my father gave me his usual instructions?

A week after my father left, my mother became even more alluring.

Every night when I went to the bathroom, I encountered many "strange sights." My mother was still wearing a tight, short skirt, but it was even shorter, only covering her nipples, exposing most of her snow-white chest muscles and revealing a deep cleavage, often making my eyes bulge. Almost every time I got up in the middle of the night, I would encounter my mother dressed like this, as if she was deliberately waiting for me. I wanted to know what her real purpose was.

On the first Sunday after Dad left, Mom and I sat in the living room, feeling incredibly bored. Mom seemed restless, and she said she wanted to teach me a game of two-player solitaire. She was wearing an old, sheer, light brown nightgown, and as she bent over to shuffle the cards, I could see her firm, red nipples through the neckline. Every time our hands accidentally touched a card, Mom's body trembled as if electrocuted, her breasts quivering alluringly.

We could feel a tense, restless atmosphere in the room.

Mom was sweating profusely, despite the cold room and her scantily clad body. My body temperature, affected by this atmosphere, began to rise rapidly. My genitals, unable to resist the urge, swelled faster than ever before, but because they were tightly bound by my jeans, the pressure on my glans was painful.

I started thinking of other new games, searching for one that Mom could join in, but just the two of us. My mother exuded an alluring, mature woman's fragrance, a scent that could ignite a man's desire. This stirred lewd and obscene thoughts within me, and my longing for her body intensified.

I imagined my mother was feeling the same way, but with other children present, she dared not make a move. In the living room, my sister Rose watched us play cards with great interest. Under that focused gaze, how could I possibly slip my hand inside my mother's pajamas? Remembering how often we argued and fought, I wanted nothing more than to kick her out of the room.

But on the other hand, I was also afraid.

I was only sixteen, while my mother was a mature thirty-two-year-old woman, older than me and my own mother. Could it be that I was just imagining things, misunderstanding her intentions? Perhaps she was simply acting out of concern for her child, out of natural maternal love?

After all, she was my mother; how could a son lay a hand on his father's woman? The textbooks clearly state that incest is wrong, bad, and has serious consequences; there should be no doubt about that. Thinking about

this made me angry.

These terrible and chaotic thoughts strongly troubled me. I stood up and told my mother I wasn't feeling well and wanted to go back to my room to sleep.

"Okay, baby. We'll come see you again tomorrow morning. Get some rest tonight," my mother said lovingly, kissing me goodbye. But this time she didn't kiss my face; instead, she kissed my lips. I swear, her tongue touched my lips.

This unexpected stimulation made me ejaculate twice before I finally fell asleep, exhausted.

Around three in the morning, I woke up needing to urinate and had to go to the toilet. I reluctantly got up, a little afraid to go to the toilet, because I was almost certain that my mother would be waiting for me on the road, as usual.

But I miscalculated. Mom wasn't waiting in the hallway. Looks like I was being paranoid. Come to think of it, it's three o'clock; even if Mom was interested, she wouldn't stay up until then.

Oh, that's great. I haven't had such a relaxed bathroom trip in ages.

On my way back to my room, I passed Mom's bedroom. Usually, she'd be sleeping in her enviable big bed by now.

The door was open, everything seemed normal.

I stopped because I heard strange clattering sounds and rhythmic moans coming from Mom's bedroom.

What's wrong with Mom? I thought she must be doing something strange again, but maybe she's sick? Perhaps I should call the doctor.

The room was dark, but I could clearly see Mom standing in front of the dressing table.

She was facing the mirror, her left hand on the table, her right hand obscured by the table, so I couldn't see what she was doing. But I could tell her right hand was moving back and forth near her groin, as if pushing something inside. The clattering sounds were from the dressing table, and the moans were from Mom. When her right hand moved, Mom let out a happy moan.

I stared blankly at the mirror, and in it I saw my mother's full breasts trembling as she masturbated.

Oh, what a sensual and stimulating scene! But before I could even appreciate it, I was captivated by my mother's expression.

Her eyes were open, but not at her bouncing breasts, nor at her groin; they were fixed on me, clearly watching my reaction.

Dim moonlight streamed in through the window, and I think I saw a desperate plea and need in her eyes.

Suddenly, I felt extreme fear and confusion. I ran back to my bedroom as if my life depended on it and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, when I woke up, I found my mother standing by my bed (this time wearing a well-fitting bathrobe), touching my forehead.

"You're a little hot. Looks like you have a high fever. I think you'd better not go to school today." Actually, I was fine, and I didn't have a fever, but what sixteen-year-old boy could possibly enjoy going to school? If my mother agreed to let me skip class, who would be foolish enough to insist on going?

After she made breakfast for my younger siblings, she sent them all off to school as usual.

Ten minutes later, they were all out, and Mom came in.

"You're not sick, get up and take a shower. I have something to tell you," she commanded, but her tone was gentle.

I slipped into the bathroom, adjusted the water temperature to a comfortable level, and began my morning routine of masturbating.

Just as I was getting into it, the bathroom door suddenly opened, and Mom was standing in the doorway. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

( II) 　　"I told you to take a shower, not to play with your thing. Do you want me to stand here and watch you shower?" she said angrily. 　　"No, no, no! Mom, please, please close the door!" I pleaded. 　　After Mom's interruption, I lost interest, and my penis quickly shrank. 　　I hurriedly finished my shower and was drying myself with a towel when the door opened again, and Mom came in. 　　"Hi, baby, let Mommy help you." Mommy said, drying me off with a large, soft towel. 　　"I don't want to interrupt your good time, baby," she said, "but we need to talk about last night. I think it'll be good for both of us, if you didn't ejaculate." After drying me off, Mommy took my hand and led me to her bedroom. We sat together on the bed, still wearing the bathrobe she had been wearing. 　　"Now, let's talk about what happened in the bathroom earlier. How many times do you masturbate every day? I've never seen a boy ejaculate as frequently as you." "Oh, Mom! I don't ejaculate as much as you say!" 　　She grinned and said, "Be honest, don't try to fool your mother. Think about who does your laundry. Your shorts are always covered in dried semen, your sheets are always stained, not to mention you use every pair of your sister's and mine's underwear as a rag. Your brothers are only seven and eight years old, it couldn't be them, so who else could it be but you? Tell me, how many times?" I looked down at the floor and hesitated before saying, "Usually five times, sometimes seven." Mom's eyes lit up, and she murmured, "Great." 　　She lifted my head and made me look at her. 　　"I saw you staring at me last night. Do you know what I was doing?" "No, Mom. At first I thought you were catching something, but you looked like you were enjoying it. Mom, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have peeked at you." "You weren't peeking, child. I let you see. I needed you to see so we could talk. I really wished you would come into the room last night, but it's good this way. Now we have things to talk about, and we can see what the other is doing and with whom. I was masturbating, what you call masturbation." "Does Mom do that too?" 　　"Of course, honey," she said. "People do that when they can't satisfy their sexual needs. Okay, now let's go to bed." She had me lie down in the middle of the bed, then went to the window, drew back the curtains, and let the morning sunlight into the bedroom. 　　Then she took a strip of black cloth from the closet, went behind me, and suddenly blindfolded me with the cloth, then tied a knot. 　　"Don't worry, baby, I'll untie it for you soon. I just wanted to surprise you." I was pondering what my mother meant when I heard something slip down, like a snake. Then the bed moved; my mother had gotten into bed and lay down next to me on the pillow. 　　"Okay, I'll untie the blindfold, but don't peek, okay? Keep your eyes closed." She said, "Swear you won't peek." "Okay, Mom, I swear." 　　My mother untied the blindfold, letting it fall around my neck. I kept my promise and kept my eyes tightly shut. 　　I smelled my mother's faint fragrance again, the same delicate, musky scent I smelled last night while playing cards. 　　My lower body began to harden. My mother must have seen it. I wanted to know how she would react. 　　"Okay, child, open your eyes." 　　God, my mother is so beautiful! 　　The 'hissing' sound I heard was the sound of her bathrobe slipping off and hitting the floor. My mother's body, now before me, was like God's most perfect masterpiece, naked and dazzlingly beautiful. 　　Naturally, my gaze first fell upon my mother's vulva. 　　Since I was three, I had never had the chance to see them so openly. Now they were laid bare before me, still so white, firm, and full, the pointed nipples as red as I remembered, now erect and aroused. 　　My eyes quickly swept over my mother's vulva, not daring to linger. I knew I had to, because I knew my mother might have come up with a new way to tease this novice, and soon I would be sent back to my room to masturbate to these memories. 　　My mother's pubic hair was jet black and shiny, looking somewhat damp, the thick pubic hair covering the entire mound, obscuring the slit I had seen with my girlfriend in the same grade.

Suddenly, Mom thrust her pelvis forward, arching her back and revealing the cleft of her vulva. She spread her labia with her hands, and I could see a large, granular object at the top of the cleft. Was this the clitoris I'd read about in a wedding manual I'd stolen from Mom's girlfriend? Below it was a deep, unfathomable hole, seemingly capable of swallowing my penis effortlessly.

The thought of the pleasure of my penis being swallowed by Mom's mysterious opening made me tremble involuntarily. My penis became erect and fully hard, clear fluid oozing from the tip.

At the same time, Mom pulled a long, white plastic dildo from under her pillow. She told me it could relax her muscles, then inserted it into her vagina and began to thrust forcefully.

"That's what I did last night," she said. "I wanted a real penis inside me, but all I had was this cold plastic toy. I could only use it to comfort myself. How I wished someone could completely save me. But last night my cowardly son didn't have the courage to do it. Now I don't need it anymore. I want you, son, come on!" Somehow, I misunderstood my mother's meaning because she was still rubbing her vulva with that plastic thing.

"Are you still going to use this thing to satisfy yourself?" I asked stupidly.

"No, son, I don't want to do it alone. I think it's more fun when we do it together." This time, I didn't hesitate. I just looked at her and said, "I want to use this thing to satisfy myself."

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